


Woe to the Usurper

by Frosted_King85



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frosted_King85/pseuds/Frosted_King85
Summary: What if all of Aerys's shining seven had in fact, been at the Trident? Would it have changed anything in regards to canon. Let's find out
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Elia/Rhaegar(past), Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen(onesided), Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Wynafryd Manderly/Robb Stark, multi - Relationship, various
Comments: 103
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a oneshot that had been banging around my head but, i could go further with it.  
> Lemme know if you're interested in a continuation/expansion.

Westeros 283 AC

The Trident

Aerys Targaryen’s shining sentinels rode six abreast, absent only the cub of Lannister on the green fields of the Riverlands.

Behind them, rode the single most important man in the seven kingdoms.

Prince Rhaegar was a man of intellect, poetry and song by his preferences, but today, after several failed subjugations of this ferocious rebellion, he molded himself a warrior.

“Sers Darry, Selmy and Martell! You know our plan and your places in it!” He shouted, his normally melodious voice made heavier by the dragon helm he wore. “Ride and be true, and I’ll see you all in the feasting tent after we end this uprising.” He promised confidently, his lilac eyes firm.

As one, the three white cloaked knights nodded and splintered off, taking positions of command among the forty thousand men who made up the coiled steel and iron dragon that served house Targaryen.

“And us, my prince?” Came the growly rasp of the lord commander of the Kingsguard.

Ser Gerold Hightower had seen more battles than most men had seen years, but he was still the fiercest fighter the Reach had produced in one hundred years.

“You three will ride at my side, Lord Commander.” Prince Rhaegar assured quietly, even as his eyes wandered over the bristling hordes arrayed against them. “Though if my cousin should find us afield, I expect you to stand aside as I face him. I’ll not have it said that a son of the dragon had no stomach for war.” He stated calmly, his fist tight around the hilt of the sword he bore.

The three remaining Kingsguard shared a swift, almost imperceptible look of understanding, even as they all agreed outwardly.

“What of Lord Stark, Your Grace? How shall we proceed ther-“Ser Arthur Dayne began trepidation heavy in his manner before he was vigorously cut off by his Lord Commander.

“What of the wolf Lord, you ask Ser?” The older man barked angrily. “Has he not taken up his sword against the rule of his rightful king? Is he not sworn man to this drunken usurper? Has he not killed men, men who were loyal and true to honor? Pah to the wolf lords, I say!” The looming man spat at the end of his grumbles, his blue eyes shining with wrath, even from the confines of his white enameled helm.

“Ser Gerold has said what I know to be true in my heart. There can be no mercy for men such as Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn or Hoster Tully. They seek to supplant my house, and they’ve rallied the realm to do so.” At this, Rhaegar seemed pained, his jaw clenching even as he waved to the common men at arms surrounding them. “Lyanna will be devastated, but treason is treason. And Benjen Stark is the brother she was closest to regardless.”

Arthur Dayne had words on his tongue, but he swallowed them as Rhaegar then pulled his sword from the sheath.

“LET US END THIS THRICE CURSED REBELLION, AND GO HOME! TO WAR AND AN END TO THE USURPERS!”

The dragon prince roared those words, and the coiled dragon of loyalists sprang forward, murderous intent gleaming in their eyes.

*************************

There were so many men there, that day on the trident.

But in the end, it all came down to a melee between eight men.

Four were Kingsguard knights.

Three were rebel lords.

One was a beloved prince.

****************************

Robert Baratheon found them first.

The Stag lord was already gruesomely splattered when he surged into the path of the prince and his personal guard.

Rhaegar made to stride forth when he found himself blocked by the broad backs of his white armored friends and guards.

“Stand aside, my rebellious cousin and I will have this out!” He ordered to deaf ears, even as his best friend Ser Arthur Dayne shoved him back as he stepped forth.

Robert Baratheon laughed to see this display of loyalty.

“You’re weak dragon!” He boomed, his antlered form appearing half a giant. “If I have to kill better men to feel your blood on my lips, so be it!”

And with that, he was on the Dornish knight, as the other two kept themselves as a wall of steel plate between their charge and his foe.

Many men later would see what Robert became after years of a miserable lordship, and say, “He was only ever big and strong. His skill was an afterthought to his ferocity.”

Those men would be wrong, for if they stood in the muddy waters of the Trident, they would have seen the truth of the Demon.

The Stormlord fought a man who was said to have a sword that was made of a magic metal, forged from a piece of a star.

The Dornish man fought a man who wielded his hammer as if it was magic in his hands.

A Crownlander knight would later say he never saw anyone use a hammer, the way the Baratheon did.

Robert Baratheon was six and a half feet tall, and weighed twenty stone.

He WAS fast, strong and ferocious.

But above all, Robert was skilled.

He was not as skilled as Arthur Dayne when it came to swordcraft, but he wasn’t far behind either.

But with his hammer in hand, Robert became a storm aflesh.

He used both the face of the hammer and the spike he asked Donal Noye to specifically add to the shaft of the weapon as points of death, to keep Dayne on the back foot.

Dayne was a whirlwind of cuts and slashes, trying to break and end the stormlord, but his foe was immovable.

His plate was thick and his shield was stout.

His hammer was everywhere it seemed.

They’d been fighting for ten minutes when a bead of sweat dripped into Dayne’s left eye.

He shook his head to clear his blurred vision, when the spike on the bottom of Baratheon’s hammer shaft found his right shoulder in a brutally aimed thrust.

It didn’t pierce the metal, nor did it break any skin but it did what it was supposed to.

His gauntleted hand opened in a reflexive response to the pain, and the sword Dawn slipped from his fingers, to splash into the river.

“Arthur.” Rhaegar breathed in horror as his cousin was already following through with a monstrous swing.

The sound of metal screaming in protest was nearly lost in the roar of triumph that was Robert’s bellow as he buried the hammer into the proudest of Aery's knights opposite shoulder.

Ser Arthur Dayne sank to his knees in the cold water, even as he looked to his left and saw his foe’s hammer sticking out of him.

He tried to raise his arm to pull it out, but a warm sense of fatigue made it impossible.

“USURPER!” Bellowed Ser Gerold as he leapt forward, his sword already out and bloodlust in his eyes.

Robert tried to pull his hammer from the slowly dying Dayne, only to find it stuck in the metal.

He knew that Hightower was nearly on him when he saw a dead Dornish spearman at his side, propped up in the waters by another spear that impaled his chest.

With a strength born of rage and nearly grasped ambitions, in one smooth motion he yanked the bloody spear from the dead man’s chest and with nearly supernatural grace, he ducked away from the Reachman’s killing thrust and with planted feet drove the spear through his groin and into the ground.

The vaunted son of the Hightower swayed incredulously in the stinking riverlands air for a moment, his agonized final breaths painful to behold for those who bore witness.

His sword and shield both fell into the dark water with a soft splash.

Even Robert seemed bewildered by what he’d done, but the panicking gasps from Rhaegar quickly roused the Demon once more.

“Your Grace, you must flee!” Shouted Ser Oswell Whent, as he swiftly drew his sword and began pushing his prince backwards to safety, with his back.

Rhaegar looked to do so, but then saw his men’s eyes on him.

He knew that if he ran here, even if they won the day, he’d never be free from the infamy of cowardice.

So he stayed and drew his sword and made to charge alongside his last defender, surrounding his bloodthirsty cousin on either side, his freed hammer a blur of desperation to keep the two knights at bay.

Rhaegar saw Robert stumble in the muck and felt his inner dragon roar, knowing an end was at hand. He saw Oswell slash upwards at the exposed flank, where the straps and cinches of plate are weakest and prepared to thrust.... only to have the Quiet wolf of Winterfell fall on him, with a true giant at his side.

************************** 

Eddard Stark had killed many men that day.

He knew Robert wanted Rhaegar for himself, but he glimpsed the dragon from afar making for his horse, and rather than allow him to escape called his mightiest bannerman alongside for the dragon hunt.

Greatjon Umber was slick with blood and gore, but he heard his liege’s cry and charged to him, carving through all who stood against them.

“Jon!” He heard his lord shout. “Take Ice and help me cut down that dragon!” He pointed, as he handed the enormous man the massive sword.

His gnarled hands took it reverently, marveling at the lightness that contradicted its size.

“With me now!” Eddard Stark bellowed as he drew his long sword, and the push was on.

Umber found himself butchering men with an ease that should’ve been frightening, but to see the smooth cheeked southrons cowering made him guffaw with glee.

It was twenty feet away that they saw the prince and his last Kingsguard ghoul dueling with the Stormlord, and the Stormlord was waning.

Stark drove in, catching a deadly stroke from Rhaegar, seeing recognition take hold, before resolve hardened the queer man’s face.

All who knew the Stark siblings saw firstly the fire of Brandon and the wildness of Lyanna. The solemnness of Eddard and precociousness of Benjen wasn’t as initially impressive.

On the Trident that day however, Eddard was a glacier breaking off in the bay of Ice. He was unstoppable.

Rhaegar was known to be an accomplished jouster and archer.

Ned Stark was known for his silences and watchfulness.

Many men apparently forgot that he sparred with his brother frequently, as well as Robert Baratheon and other Vale lordlings.

Rhaegar wouldn’t.

Rhaegar tried to fight at his best. But his heart wasn’t in it.

He’d seen his best friend slain in his stead. And then he’d witnessed the swift killing of a man he’d looked up to.

His mind was in the deaths he’d seen that day, so he didn’t even witness his own coming.

It was a simple cut, on the throat by Stark’s blade that didn’t even bleed much, at first.

By then Ser Barristan had come upon them, and cut Stark down with a slash to the side.

He had Dawn in hand, pulled from the river as he stood aghast at the brutal end his brothers had faced.

His Lord Commander Ser Gerold, dead on his feet and stuck to the ground.

Ser Arthur, his friend a cooling corpse, kneeling in the shallow riverbed.

Ser Oswell, a pain but loyal, cut in two by the enormous northman with the Valyrian steel sword, his own sword shattered from the killing blow.

He drove off the Baratheon pretender with Dawn in his hand, taking two of the usurper’s fingers for the effort.

But saving his prince, that was his only hope.

And in his fervor to do so, he killed him.

When he cut down Stark, and pulled the prince to his side, the weight of the prince’s heavy armor, in opposition to the pull of his loyal knight, opened the small cut a tad deeper.

Ser Barristan the Bold would toss Prince Rhaegar onto a horse and haul himself up behind him, to ride him to the Red Keep and safety, but Rhaegar would well die before they reached it.

The Targaryen dynasty was broken that day, and only embers and fools would bemoan it.


	2. Chapter 2

Woe to the Usurper

Chapter 2

The command tent was crowded with body heat, as the sun shone brightly on the Trident.

Inside the ragged tent, realm shaking motions were being put forth and rejected, tasted and chewed upon.

“This cannot last my lords.” Lord Hoster Tully said for the fourth time that morning. “Be it a sack or parlay, we must _do something,_ for no longer can we linger afield as the city lays silent. We know nothing of the movements of the roses, or even worse the lions.” He grumbled as he unconsciously flexed his hand on his wounded left side.

Jon Arryn, lord of the Vale and architect of the greatest rebellion in two hundred years was the oldest noble present, and going by the way his hand never left the bridge of his nose, the respected lord felt every single one of those years at the moment.

“No Lord Tully, we can’t afford to be hasty right now. “ Jon Arryn cautioned. “Lord Stark has yet to awaken, and Lord Robert is still laying on wineskins as a way to deal with his pain. Our men are exhausted and need rest. We’ve arranged our armies defensively as best your lands allow. Neither thorny roses nor lions will be able to take us unawares.” He finished grimly, his white eyebrows knitted together.

Lord Jason Mallister waded into the space then, his normally proud countenance partially masked by cloth bandages from where a deft hand had viciously plied a dagger.

The man who owned that hand lost his life for his efforts.

“We’ve time yet, my lord.” The renowned knight reasoned. “The loyalists in the capitol are cut off by our proximity, and they’ve no one to rally them, aside from perhaps Ser Barristan. Lord Robert slew three of Aerys’s Kingsguard himself, from Darry to Hightower, and Lord Umber cut Whent in two. Lord Stark acquitted himself superbly against the Prince, and the riders that we sent out all return saying the same thing. The smallfolk of the crownlands all saw Ser Barristan riding hard for the city, with Rhaegar tossed before him like a sack of apples. And where he was draped, from withers to shoulder, the beast that carried them was stained with blood. More than a man can stand to lose and still live. The city won’t ring the bells for they fear it’ll embolden us, but I’d wager forty gold dragons that the prince is dead.”

The tent was silent at this claim, as the enormity of the possibility settled upon them.

Rhaegar was once thought to be the best hope for a new age of Westeros, a man to take what Aerys had defiled and abused, and bring it new heights of glory. Men had believed him to be the Old King come again, reborn to enrich the realm.

Only he hadn’t, and now he may lie dead.

The silence could’ve lasted minutes to hours, but it was broken by the arrival of a living legend.

“You speak so confidently riverlord, but Rhaegar was assured of our defeat as well, and he had to be carried from the field like a peasant carries a sack of turnips. Mayhaps, allow the stag and wolf to add their thoughts to this counsel.” Robert Baratheon blustered as he blew into the ever small tent.

He gestured to someone at his rear and stepped aside, allowing two burly northmen to gently assist Lord Eddard Stark, the quiet wolf to be securely seated in a chair a lesser riverlord hastily vacated.   
  


The gentleness of Stark’ aides were a harsh contrast to their look and presence. If a tally had been kept, the records would show that both of these men had killed no less than thirty crownland knights between them at the battle of the Trident, and that number doubled if one included the battle of the bells.

Jon Arryn was on his feet then, concerned indignation apparent in his lined face as he looked upon his two former wards.

Robert was swaying on his feet, the bandaged hand that the Bold gifted him a plain brown from the long dried blood staining it. His good hand was continually clenching and opening, something Jon knew he did when he wished for a stouter drink.

Eddard Stark wasn’t much better in his chair.

Ser Barristan must have cut him deeply, when he moved to save his prince.

He was wan and nearly feverish, his long brown hair plastered to the side of his solemn face. His skin, usually an almost ghastly northern pale was unhealthily flushed, making him appear ruddy.

Only his eyes, the same eyes as Rickard and Brandon Stark bore their normal look.

A weighty look he leveled at Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully, who missed it as he’d sent one of the more minor riverlords to fetch a maester for his good-son, no doubt intent on not losing his northern investment.

“Rhaegar”…..Here the young lord paused to gather himself, and fought down a wheeze. “He took my sister, Lya...Lady Lyanna. And his father murdered my father and my brother, as well as two hundred northmen and the sons and relatives of many here, in this very tent.” He slowed here, his normally cool features twisted into a snarl worthy of his family’s sigil.

“I’m done with the south, my friends.” He said firmly, his grey eyes bright with determination. “Robert, Jon, Hoster and everyone else who stood beside me in this. I will carry fondness and regard for you til the old gods take my last breath, but I’m finished with this realm. Until now the north has never broken the oaths we gave to the dragons, but they’ve spat upon us all same. I say I’m done with them, and now I also want to be done with this war. The day after tomorrow, we ride for the city and an end to this bloody conflict. I want my sister my lords and I want to go home.” He finished softly, his chest rising and falling from his impassionate speech.

“Ned, your father agreed for us to wed, me and Lya… It was agreed up-” Robert got out before his foster brother pushed himself to his feet with a great effort, snarling at the unwelcome contact from his ‘aides’ before they stepped back.

“Robert, you think Lyanna has merely been a maid in a tower, for these past moons?” He demanded hoarsely, one hand braced on the chair and the other at his side, as he stood there unsteadily in that tent, the eyes of all fastened to him in silence. “Rhaegar, damn his hide did what all the dragons do. He took her, and likely in ways I need not mention in a room of noble men. I may have spent years in the Vale, but I’m a Stark always, and I know my sister. After all this violence, done both to her and the realm, she’ll want the same thing I and any other Stark would want. Winterfell. A Stark is a direwolf, and the direwolf need’s its den. Perchance in time, the match could be revisited, but she will need to heal. If you love her truly, you’ll give her that.” He ended, as he sat down heavily once again.

Robert looked as if he still had a storm left in him, his handsome pallid face stubbornly set, but then his fierce blue eyes softened as he looked upon his beleaguered friend, and he sighed.

He rested his fists upon the oak table, wincing as his maimed hand took the brunt of his mass, even as he grunted out his agreement.

“We’ve all heard Ned.” He grumbled sullenly. “The day after the next, we and a chosen many ride for the city, to see an end to this damnable fucking war.”

The Red Keep

Aerys Targaryen was dead.

There was no foul play, unless one considered the vile stink that clung to his body and garments, said greasy raiment being the cause of such an infamous monarch’s end.

It was almost funny, the mundaneness of such evil’s end.

He’d had the court that was left to him assembled in the room that held both the throne, and temporarily, his son’s dead body.

He’d allowed none to touch him, prepare him for burial. Aerys claimed that until his sister queen saw the body of their boy, none would have him, not even the gods.

And so the Silent sisters were not called, the oils were not applied and the room was filled with body nobility, and stink.

He’d descended the uneven, blade sharp steps of the Iron throne, wailed at nothing and everything upon seeing his beloved boy’s corpse, and had his good-daughter restrained and made to kneel.

Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne and now Princess Mother to the rightful King of the seven kingdoms fears she’ll always remember the brutal grasp of the red and black armored knight who forced her head down to the stone floor of the throne of the Red Keep as her good-father cursed her and her Dornishness as the root cause of his family’s suffering.

She’d seen the knight who abused her around the castle for years, and he’d always been unfailingly polite and respectful of her, even permitting a smile to grace his nondescript features at the antics of her daughter Rhaenys.

That was so typical of her daughter, to charm all who allowed themselves to be.

It was just the God’s own misfortune that the one person who refused to allow themselves to love her, was the most powerful and thus dangerous man in the realm.

There was no fond smile on the knight’s face as he gripped the back of her head in one of his huge steel covered hands. When he’d crudely grabbed her from the back of the darkened room at the order of his monarch, his eyes had been flat and uncaring, apathy and indifference taking any remembered courtesy and dropping it as if privy touched.

“Ser Rymilde, please…” Hating the audible hitch of fear that seized her throat, bile coagulating into bitterness that threaded its way into her heart. As her eyes turned to slits from the agony of the position, from the pressure he unflinchingly applied upon her creaking bones, she wondered if her mother had any idea of what land she was sending her daughter into.

Her mother said only a dragon would do for the Princess of Dorne.

_Can you see me now Princess Mother? If you had visions of such treatment for one of Dorne’s daughters, would you still agree to the match? Would you have dissuaded me, and arranged me a marriage to a kind Dornish lord? A Yronwood surely? Or maybe a Blackmont, or even a Dayne perhaps?  
Or would the possibility of King Aegon the Sixth as a grandson of the Princess of Dorne make it all worthwhile? Is Dornish blood on the throne worth your sweet babe being bent and bowed to lunacy?_

“YOU USELESS DORNISH WHORE!” Aerys the Mad bellowed at her lowered head, not even registering the rank saliva that sprayed from his lips and rained on her nape. “I SHOULD’VE MARRIED MY SWEET BOY TO TYWINS’S SLUT DAUGHTER, FOR AT LEAST HE’D SEND TWENTY THOUSAND SWORDS TO SLAY THESE TREASONOUS DOGS! INSTEAD, I GAVE YOU THE HONOR OF WEDDING THE DRAGON, AND THE PALTRY TEN THOUSAND YOUR IDIOT BROTHER SENT DID NOTHING! MY BOY IS DEAD, AND THESE USURPERS MARCH FOR MY THRONE.” He was panting with effort of his madness, his slippered feet the only portion of him that she saw from her prone abasement, pacing to and fro.

Until they stopped, and her heart clenched, as she knew that meant yet another whim took hold of his disease riddled mind.

“You Ser, bring the whore to the foot of my throne.” He spat, and the enormous hand squeezing the back of her neck tightened even more, if it was possible as he then began to walk forward at his king’s command, dragging the wife of the late Crown Prince of the seven kingdoms along the rough, frictious floor.

She closed her eyes and bit her lip as she was treated so roughly, refusing to allow even a plea to escape.

Her whimpers however, were audible in the crowded room, yet no one said a word.

She remembered the eyes of envy and malice that had touched her ever since she came to court.

The Lannister girl was a boiling pot of greed and hate, wildfire in her eyes after the betrothal was announced. More than a few Reach ladies had instantly disliked her; both for her Dornish origins and the place in court she was being allowed. The riverland courtiers were little better, none sharing the open malice of the other two realms, but the disregard was almost as cutting.

The Dornish were a vermin to be tolerated in these northern kingdoms, and to have one wed into the ruling family clearly rankled the stuffy feathers.

_Who would still like to trade places with me? Who still wishes they wed the Last Dragon? Who still feels they deserve these honors? The honor of disdain. The honor of slander._

“Send for her whelps!” He rasped to the room, as his loyal servant shoved her face into the first step, so hard and callous that her head rang upon impact.

_Not my babes, please spare my children._

The clanking steps of a different knight pounded in her head as they approached, white steel sabatons entering her peripheral only to be whipped back by a ravening lizard.

“BACK SER BARRISTAN!” Aerys screamed, lunacy pouring off him in almost palpable waves. “NONE MAY APPROACH THE DRAGON, UNLESS THE DRAGON WILLS IT FIRST! MY USELESS SON IS DEAD, SO NOW IT FALLS TO ME TO DISCIPLINE HIS WHORE WIFE!” He declared shrilly, his pungent body odor rising alongside his volume.

“Forgive me, Your Grace…it’s just the Princess bleeds sire. And her health has always been a trial.” He pleads softly, daring another step forward.

Now his white steel greaves were visible through the veil of her hair, freed by the ignoble treatment of Ser Rymilde.

“AND SHE SHOULD BLEED!” The devil howled a fevered happiness apparent in his voice. “DRAGONS ARE MADE OF FIRE AND BLOOD. MAYHAP IF HER BED KNEW MORE OF BLOOD, MY SON WOULDN’T HAVE RESORTED TO SNATCHING THE STARK SLUT! NOW STAND BACK BARRISTAN, BEFORE YOU BURN ALONGSIDE HER! WE SHALL WAIT FOR THE DORNISH SPAWN IN SILENCE!”

Aerys Targaryen was never one to miss a chance for a petty cruelty so as he turned back to the dais, turned back to his beloved throne, he pushed on the still prostrate head of his good-daughter, just one more indignity to add to the countless others.

She grit her teeth and willed herself not to cry as the clawlike nails scraped her scalp, even as the sweaty hand used her head as if it were a bannister to brace on.

The Gods have never seen less real, than that moment when Aerys cackled in glee at her impotence.

But in the seconds after, she never wished to give them more worship.

Aerys Targaryen, Second of his name and king of the seven kingdoms, tripped over the hem of his filthy robes.

Those who were in the throne room that day, huddled in a petrified silence would later have many different ideas about what caused it.

The wise would say Aerys’s desire to humiliate the princess led to his uneven balance, which permitted his foot to catch on his garments.

The contrarians would say it was some foul Dornish magick that did it, with the more vile supposing that they even heard words being uttered by the bent form, a Rhoynish spell of petty defiance that only the truly treasonous could think of.

Both groups would be wrong.

Aerys tripped because he was an underfed, twitchy man and his good-daughter’s bent head wasn’t able to hold his weight.

So when she shifted slightly in pain, his own malice toppled him.

The reigning monarch of the seven kingdoms landed against the foot of his ancestor’s throne, and was cut deeply on the collar by one of its many twisted steel barbs, inches from the same cut that took his eldest son’s life.

Rhaegar took five minutes to die, the galloping gait of Ser Barristan’s stolen steed exacerbating a minor wound.

His father took fifty seconds, and his was a nasty, gasping, choking scene.

Ser Barristan, as the most senior man in the hall took charge instantly.

“CLEAR THE ROOM, THIS INSTANT AND FETCH THE GRAND MAESTER!” He roared, even as he ripped off Ser Jaime’s white cloak (the young knight had been deathly silent the whole while, ashen and trembling) and held it to the king’s throat.

The vultures scattered at the bark, a mad rush for the doors as all but the one’s closest to the dais fled the macabre sight.

That taloned hand was now pointing at Elia, even as his lifeblood gushed down his front.

She pushed herself up on her shaking arms, and then rested on her heels. Her thighs screamed in misery, but she ignored it, choosing to then throw her hair back over her shoulder as she allowed herself to stare the devil in his eyes.

The room was silent, aside from the rattles that marked the slow rising of Aerys’s chest.

The clanking of Ser Barristan’s armor as he held his king close and the shuffle of Ser Jaime as he knelt beside her and gently placed his arm around her waist. As he delicately pulled her to her feet, wincing at the pained gasp that she gave when he tightened his grip, the side door to the room flew open and the annoyingly familiar shuffle of Grand Maester Pycelle broke the soundless quiet.

“I’m here, I’m here!” The doddering oaf bumbled his way in, a servant carrying his satchel for him.

As he peered down at the king through his spectacles, his face gave a good mummery for grief, as he sank down to his knees next to Ser Barristan.

“I’m sorry Sers, my Princess….” He uttered hoarsely, an actor beyond compare. “There’s nothing to be done. He’s lost too much blood and these coughs herald the inevitable end.” He rose slowly with a longwinded sigh, shaking his head abjectly as he shuffled back the way he came.

Elia waited until the door shut behind him before she stepped away from Ser Jaime and released the breath she’d been holding since Aerys fell.

“Ser Jaime, follow the Grand Maester and take him and his servants to the Black Cells. And if he’s in the process of writing any scrolls, bring them to me immediately.” She ordered brusquely, ignoring the way the young knight gaped at her swift change.

“My Princess-” He started, but at a look from her, he quieted and with a bow strode quickly out the same way Pycelle did.

“Ser Barristan.” She said quietly. He ignored her, lost in the sight of the dead man in his arms.

“SER BARRISTAN!” She yelled, to snap the man out of his daze.

“My Princess….?” He uttered, looking like a lost little boy even though he was very far from such an age.

_The man looks close to weeping for the monster in his arms. Did he ever weep for me or Rhaella when we suffered this beast?_

“Ser, your king needs you.” She reminded him softly, so as not to spook him.

“My king...” He uttered, as he looked back down to the corpse in his arms.

“Aerys is dead, as is Rhaegar Ser.” She stated curtly, her breath starting to hitch as the slowness of the man was becoming a problem.

_I don’t have time to lead this man out of whatever this is. We have not the time, and I don’t know what the rebels plan, nor if Tywin Lannister is already on his prowl._

“My son, Aegon the sixth of his name, is the king now and he needs loyal men around him.” She narrowed her eyes at him as he placed King Scab on the ground as if he were made of glass, and slowly gained his feet.

“None are more loyal than the Bold, Princess.” He swore slowly, an old warrior clad in white, stained with blood.

“Good. I would have you take twenty dragon cloaks and bring my children to me.” She commanded intent and poise in every word. “They are the most important people on the continent, and after that, I’d have you take another fifty and escort Lady Stark to the Red Keep. My husband placed her in a manse near Flea Bottom, close to the Iron Gate. Be gentle with her, she is in the motherly way.”

He gaped just as his knightly junior did, until he found himself and nodded as he turned to march out. Stopping only to say “If I go my Princess, who will guard you and the children?”

“Ser Jaime will have returned by then, and he’ll suffice Ser. Now please, go and do as I bid you.” She ordered.

Cutting a swift bow, the proud old knight swept from the room.

Elia turned to the side wall, gesturing to a handmaiden to summon the silent sisters, the ones needed to clean up this mess and start the next era of Westeros.

Elia Martell was now the Princess Mother, sole parent to the king of the seven kingdoms.

_And all it took, was a costly war and several fools to make it possible._

She was now alone in the cavernous room with the two bodies of men who had greatly wronged her.

One had slighted her by being selfish, entitled and above it all.

The other had slighted her by being vile, repugnant and petty beyond measure.

But both were cold or cooling corpses, and she still drew breath.

_The weak snake, the gaunt ghost of Sunspear. I outlasted the one who never saw me. I overcame the one who tried to break me._

_I just need my Uncle Lewyn to come back with the Tyrell host, and maybe then a peace could be discussed._

All children deserve a peaceful realm to grow up in, no matter the games these nobles choose to play.

A peace would be good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things just keep on happening

The Red Keep

The Bold

This was folly, and it was only loyalty to the memory of years of service that stilled his tongue.

The Princess Mother had been exceedingly prudent in all her dealings since the ignoble death of her good-father, King Aerys.

She’d used her knightly uncle to marshal the Reach forces to defend the capitol, outpacing the rebel host by days, while also presenting the ever timely approach of the lion of Lannister with a bouquet of steel and hostility.

Her clear dislike of the Spider, didn’t keep her from using him to ferret out the most dangerous of Aerys’s sycophants, the wildfire guild.

The acolytes were numerous, but so were the men who felt that the sponsorship of their former king was ill-advised and plenty were happy to see the great reserve of the foul substance being smothered with sand.

While making sure the city was sealed up tighter than a drum, she’d also found time to sit with and comfort the infamous lady Lyanna Stark.

Barristan could never say he was a great knower of women, the way too many knights and lords professed to be, but he doubts many men have ever witnessed a woman, offering comfort and commiseration to her husband’s mistress.

No matter what the wan, haggard northerner might profess, Rhaegar was a married man in the sight of the Seven.

Whatever heathen ceremony took place, she’d only ever be the prince’s mistress.

It was after the second of these brief sits that he accompanied the Princess Mother to, that after stepping out of the hot, sweltering room into the hallway, Princess Elia exhaled shakily while looking at nothing in particular.

The Maidenvault was infamously uncomfortable, and the lack of ventilation meant it was often overly hot.

He stood silently, waiting for her to move.

She did after a heavy moment, her slow stride now a familiar cadence for him.

He’d primarily guarded the Queen Mother or King Aerys, and neither liked to speak to their guards.

Princess Elia he’d found, was different in that way.

“I fear she’s going to die, and I’ll have to present Lord Stark with the body of yet another one of his kin, Ser.” Princess Elia confessed with a mirthless chuckle to her voice. “One more dead Stark, to add to the pile.”

Barristan said nothing. There was nothing to say.

For even as a man who knew everything about the training yard and nothing of the birthing bed, he knew that Lady Lyanna seemed entirely too small, whilst her belly was clearly too big.

The sight of the young woman, a girl in truth, clutching the silk sheets in agony as her belly bulged and her hair became heavy with sweat, bravely trying to stymie the gasps and moans, even as her steel grey eyes remained locked onto the face of the Princess, the feverish sheen making the overt pleas for relief, understanding, mayhaps even forgiveness uncomfortable to witness.

For the umpteenth time, he found himself wondering at the mind of his prince.

His widow was clearly on the same tide.

“What was Rhaegar thinking, running off and marrying this child woman, and then rutting a babe into her belly?” She hissed to no one in particular, sounding eerily like the snake so populous of her homeland. “And then to drag her from Dorne, my homeland to this godforsaken city whilst in her condition?! It’s a wonder she didn’t bleed the babe out on the journey here.” Her dark eyes flashed as she made her way to Maegor’s Holdfast , where the laughter of children could be heard, even from down the hall.

Nodding to the dragon cloaked guards who stood outside the door from where the merriment could be heard, the Princess Mother gracefully glided inside, her scowl falling away as she let her eyes fall upon her children.

The Princess Rhaenys, her mother’s mirror with just her father’s purple eyes was laughing at her baby brother, the yet to be coronated King of the seven kingdoms, as he rested on his hands and knees, close in the reach of one of his many loyal nurses. The heretofore monarch was on his hands and knees on the plush rug, his padded bottom thrust towards the sky as he rocked back and forth, gurgling at his sister’s giggles.

Ser Jaime was in the process of playfully scolding the little princess when they stepped inside.

“And why do you laugh at your royal brother, Sweet Princess?” He teasingly frowned, this childish levity taking years from his face.

Barristan often forgets how young the cub of Lannister really is.

“Because…” She squealed as her laughter escalated to nearly hysterics, her nurse trying to hush her even as a smile tugged at the corners of her own lips. “Egg’s bumbum is in the air, and he looks soooo silly!” She hiccupped out, her little face almost red from laughter.

Ser Barristan prepared to step forward and take the boy to task for his slackness of watch, not even turning to see them enter the room when a small, cool hand upon his own stopped him.

Princess Elia merely raised her hand and gestured for him to step out, the same way they’d entered.

He did so, raising a brow in askance when she followed.

“They’re fine Ser, and we’ve dragons at every twenty paces at the ready.” She breathed, her eyes flitting to the black and crimson armored men who lined the hall. “I imagine you will never understand the need a parent has at times, just to rest eyes on their children. You can know it, know in your mind that they’re safe and protected, but the eyes need to confirm what the head already knows. Let us find my uncle, and prepare to meet these rebels and sew a livable tapestry from the mess _certain_ others have left us.”

They entered the throne room, closed off since the death of Aerys three days ago.

In the wake of Aerys’s death and the fleeing of the nobility at the coming of both the rebels and Lannister hosts, the small council was as small as it’s ever been.

Lucerys Velaryon was absent; in the mission of ferrying the Queen Mother back to the mainland.

The Grand Maester was still acquainting himself with his new chamber, in the black cells. His replacement had yet to be sent for. A House Rosby loaned maester was serving for now.

Symond Staunton was present, though his eyes constantly fell on Princess Elia with mistrust unhidden.

Lord Qarlton Chelsted was ash and bone in the rushes, so his position had yet to be filled.

As the council was so small, it fell to Princess Elia and her trusted few to try and sew this realm together.

Her uncle, Ser Lewyn Martell, the man who chanced the stormlands while wounded to draw the Reach host from it’s pointless campaign and put the roses to better use, was operating as the interim Hand of the king, at his niece’s behest.

The small council of the still crawling King Aegon only ruled the castle in truth, the city outlying at best but inside these walls, moves were being made to establish a peace that could be lived in.

“Beloved niece.” Came the lush accented tones of the oldest living member of the Kingsguard, Ser Lewyn Martell. A tall lean man with still thick graying hair and the olive complexion shared by his niece and grandniece, he was quick to step away from the tense conversation he’d been having with the shifty eyed Lord Staunton to come around the table and affectionately hug his relative.

Elia Martell didn’t smile much these days, aside from when she was among her children but the brother of her mother could almost always draw one to her thin face.

“Uncle, I expect we’ve made progress with the roses?” She led on delicately, as Ser Barristan pulled out her chair at the head of the table, where the king, or in this case regent normally sat.

Staunton grunted at that, drawing a cool stare from the Princess Regent and a glare from the two present Kingsguard.

“Yes, Princess...” Lewyn started after turning his baleful gaze from the man. “Mace Tyrell is a greedy bit of upjumped soil, but he’s agreed to leave a portion of his host here under our direct control, as a means of proving his loyalty to little King Aegon…as long as there’s a marriage for House Tyrell in the future. Not a supposed betrothal, but an ironclad agreement between our Houses.”

From his place at her back, Ser Barristan could tell from the tightening of her shoulder’s that the Princess Mother did not like this.

“And we need this, I imagine.” She uttered dejectedly, her hand fisting her gown at her side. ”We need the Tyrell thorns to keep the Lannister claws at bay. Not to mention the rebels as well.” She sighed then, exhaustion heavy in the release. “Do they want Aegon or Rhaenys, Uncle?” she queried.

He snorted then, derision flashing in his wine black eyes.

“The flower lord would happily take both, sweet Rhaenys for his oldest and Aegon for the one in his wife’s belly that he currently swears will be a lovely little rosette. But I told him I could only give him one. It’d either be a dragon in his garden, or a rose in the dragon pit. He chose the rose in the dragon pit, Niece.” He ended calmly, the poise at odds with the disbelief at the gamble the man was taking.

“And if his wife births a boy?” Came the girlish chirps of the Spider, as he slunk from the shadows, his robes wafting that ever present perfume he so enjoyed inflicting on those around him. “He’s had three bouncing boys so far; will he really bet everything on this one being a girl?” He cooed out gleefully as he plopped himself down.

“Then he’ll give our king a lesser rose petal but the same staunch loyalty, he promises.” Lewyn grunted at the eunuch, a personal dislike present in the sneer he gave the man.

For Barristan, this game these people played with the lives of those around him will always mystify him.

_Mace Tyrell is easily one of the richest men in the realm, with the most swords at his beck and call of any lord in the continent, aside from the king himself. Why can’t such a man just be satisfied with his lot in life? Why must they always reach for more? The same sickness infects Tywin Lannister. Born into the richest house in the realm, he was made hand of the king and brought glory to the Lannister name. But it wasn’t enough for the lion. He had to have HIS blood on the throne, above all else and others. This hunger for power is a sickness that men gulp into their bodies until it leaves them bloated and bleeding, corpses to be buried or burned._

The graceful Princess merely unclenched the hand that had knotted her gown and gave a tired nod of assent, fatigue evident in the trembling of her thin shoulders.

Lewyn extended a hand towards her, concern softening his eyes but she waved him off, a fond smile driving away the furrow of her brow.

“We must decide what will be done, what we can afford to demand before the rebel lords come my lords.” She stated, a shadow finding her gaze.

Staunton fluffed up at this, a plump pigeon all too eager to whoot and warble.

“What we can afford to demand?!” He huffed, his ostentatious leather doublet clinging at the well-fed girth he bore at his front. “My Princess, we need not worry about what we can afford, but how quickly we can run the Reach’s steel through these usurpers corpses. You have the Tyrell’s loyalty, once you agreed to sit his blood on the throne he’d spare no effort to see that lineage unchallenged. We have the dog’s right where we want them Princess. Fresh levies, well equipped and eager to prove themselves against the haggard horde of northmen and stormlanders. Let them, and see the enemies of your son’s throne swept awa-” The prattling lord would’ve continued ceaselessly if one of the handmaiden’s of the Princess hadn’t surreptitiously entered the room, and with a swift stride over the distance, approached the ear of her lady.

“I say madam, this is the small council!” Staunton blustered, offended at his so necessary wisdom being interrupted.

The Princess Mother just held up a thin hand and nodded to the woman, the dismissal polite to both.

That same hand was then placed on her face, which she slowly rubbed, only to cup her chin and cover her nose, a musing look on her face at whatever news was shared.

A cloying silence took the room as all eyes settled on the regent.

“Lady Lyanna is dead my lords. She died birthing a boy, who luckily it seems, will live.” She uttered after a moment, a grim twist to her thin lips.

“I’ve heard it said that it would be more accurate to say Princess Lyanna has died, Lady Regent.” Varys offered smugly, his hairless cheeks appled.

At that, the acting hand surged upwards from his chair beside his kin, a large hand already at the hilt of his blade as his dark eyes promised pain and suffering to the spymaster for his temerity.

“Say that again eunuch and I’ll finish the cut that the sorcerer started.” He ground out, a freezing cast to his face.

“Peace Uncle.” Princess Elia drew him back into his chair with the softest of tugs. “We’ve the rebels and Lannisters at the gates. To war in here, amongst ourselves will see them benefit. Besides, Lord Varys isn’t wrong. My noble husband wed the girl before a heart tree, with Sers Gerold, Oswell and Arthur bearing witness. She died a princess, but her child will not know it. Nor will the realm.” She vowed, her hand tugging at a ruby encrusted bangle around her wrist, a gift from her good-mother at the birth of her son. “House Targaryen is at its weakest, with the deaths of first the crown prince, and now the king. A trueborn son for the loyalists and another for the rebels would only give those who seek to supplant my son kindling for the fire. The realm has had enough fire and blood. We need a peace to grow in, to prosper of. This peace is only possible I fear if there’s no other prince to rally around, but just another bastard. He will be looked after, he will be educated but he cannot be royalty.”

Lord Staunton gave a stiff nod of agreement, his florid chins spreading.

Ser Lewyn, his black eyes still staring daggers at the Spider also nodded, his hand giving a solicitous pat of reassurance to his relative’s upon the table.

  
Varys just did as he always did; giggling at a joke only he was ken to.

“The Spider is a trickster and a devil but the point he’s raised down bear thinking on, Niece.” Ser Lewyn grunted out bluntly, a bullish stubbornness the cause of the reluctant admittance. “What if Lord Stark demands the child be given into his care? Even with the Reach, the stormlord and his cabal still have fight in them. We must expect teeth to accompany their demands, love.” The dornishman counseled, a clear warning in his eyes.

Elia Martell allowed her eyes to flash with a smoky fire as she tensed her back, a straight length of steel keeping her proud head high. Her even white teeth cut a white knife in her thin face as she faced down her uncle.

“Let Baratheon and Stark come and bare the fangs they’re so proud of Uncle. No creature has teeth more deadly than a dragon, and as of now I’m the mother to a nest of drake hatchlings.” She extolled, a resolute pride echoing in her smooth voice. “I will hear from them their wants and grievances, and I will give them a measure of justice but they will only have from us what I am willing to measure to them, and no more. And the errant second son of my late husband will stay here, as the price of peace. He will know his siblings and they will know him, at least nominally.”

Barristan found himself releasing a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding at that bit of news, relief that his prince’s son wouldn’t be raised in the halls of a traitor, but in the halls of his father.

_Families are almost always better together, even ones such as this._

“My Princess with that settled, can we move onto the Queen Mother and Prince Viserys?” Lord Staunton butted in, his impatience leaking into his question.

_If he’d dared ask Aerys anything in that manner, he’d have roasted him before lunch._

“I have no intention of making any plans for Prince Viserys or his mother without her input my lords. The poor woman has finally been freed; I’ll not do her the disrespect of not giving her any consideration.” Elia clarified coolly, a tart snap to her admonition.

“Very good, I say.” Smoothed in Lewyn, as he turned and looked around the table at the empty chairs. “Perchance we could pivot here and start trying to address the spaces this war has left us with, both in this council and the Kingsguard that protects the royal family. Hopefully Queen Rhaella will arrive safely and sooner, rather than later. Before that blessed day comes, we’ll need to start filling the ranks of the white cloaks. Three, is not enough. The sooner the structures of the royal court are filled, the sooner normalcy can return.”

The wisdom of the man was apparent, but so too was the truth of their reality. Where there was once a shining seven, now they were three.

_At least I can say my brothers died as they were supposed to, on the field with their last efforts given in defense of the prince. And now, I must welcome and bear witness to a peace being forged with their killers._

“I think the simplest and most effective means of pushing peace forward would be to take a knight from each one of the absent kingdom’s and add them to the guard.” Elia stated easily, clearly this having been something she’d given thought to already. “Ser Jaime presents the west, Ser Barristan the stormlands and my uncle our shared homeland. So one notable knight from the vale, riverlands, reach and the north would see all the realms counted.”

“The northmen don’t share the same devotion towards chivalric culture as the south, my Princess. Though you can find the occasional knight up there, should you be willing to dig in the snow for your trouble.” The eunuch giggled.

“The north was the only realm to stand behind their lord in complete unity, whereas Arryn, Tully and Baratheon all had to fight their own countrymen before they could consolidate their armies. That speaks well of the Starks but it also means that the odds of us finding a willing northman, much less a suitable northern knight is slim to none Princess.” The plump pigeon lord explained. ”Mayhaps it would just be wiser to avoid the north entirely and look closer, like the crownlands?” Staunton offered, in what was the wisest thing Barristan had ever heard him say, in all the years of his watch.

Princess Elia shook her head, a glossy black mane of loosely curled ringlets that mirrored her Uncle’s in his youth, but now his was iron grey, and thinner on the sides than Barristan suspected the vain knight liked.

“It would mean more to have each principal region reflected my lord, but should it prove too difficult to be done, your suggestion will be looked at.” She extended the olive branch, tone accommodating and easy. “Now for the spaces around this table, we need to fill these spaces with capable people who understand that if they put the king first, they’ll be putting the realm first. The days of looters ruling and robbing the realm while the king is lax must end. On that note, I’ve written a letter to the Citadel, outlining the need for a new grandmaester. I find that Pycelle was the rat in the wine cask, as the Queen Mother is in the motherly way. Without his access, she’s been able to carry this babe past the confinement range. I’ll not have such a man in charge of the king’s ravens or seal.”

Staunton was a squawking bird, his chins flopping as he tried to absorb the information.

“Queen Rhaella pregnant?! At her advanced age? When did this news reach you, and why didn’t you share it with us, the small council?”? He demanded, looking a fool and clearly not caring.

The Princess Mother’s head turned slowly as she pinned him to his chair with her eyes, neck swaying eerily like a serpent from her homeland.

“Let me be clear my lord. My uncle, as hand of the king was notified as soon as I read the scroll and offered it to the hearth fire. And as he and I make up one half of the council, it was a simple choice to not tell you. Lord Varys I suspect already knew, as his webs are ever spinning.” He tittered at that, happy to sit back with his soft hands crossed over his doughy belly. “I didn’t know if you’d try to flee as so many of Aerys’s other sycophants did, in the face of the rebel lord’s coming. We couldn’t allow you to have such information and then risk it ending up in our foes hands. You stayed however, and that made us decide to trust you with this information.” She acknowledged, a sour twist to her face.

He harrumphed loudly, clearly miffed at his exclusion but knew his anger was a futile emotion in the face of their logic.

“I must admit that I find myself perturbed by both the isolation I was unwarily placed in, as well as your estimation of myself as merely being a sycophant.” He confessed with a bitter frown on his pudgy face. “I may have postured myself as a mere toady to our late monarch but my intention was always to ever be a guiding light for King Aerys. Myself and Lord Chelsted both secretly agreed to always try and temper his worst impulses. Qarlton paid the price for his outward bravery in standing up to the king’s mania, whereas I chose to operate more heedfully. I was in contact with certain officers of the gold cloaks and they’d been watching and taking note of the coming and goings of the pyromancers, at my request. This I did out of my own purse, even as I played the oafish _sycophant_ in this very room. I know where the pots are stacked, and barring something unlikely like a swift sacking where the Gold cloaks are overcome, they will all be sand drowned and disposed of by the next moon turn.”

A stunned silence followed the chubby lord’s revelation, even as a new respect was found in the eyes of those who shared the room with him.

The portly lord flushed into the carrying silence, his former boldness evaporating as the shock drew on.

“I know this was never a council of friends, but I assumed we thought each other to be at least competent, my lords and lady.” He stated, something dangerously close to a pout pushing his thin lips out.

The silence extended still, the room’s inhabitants unsure of how to proceed after this torrent of knowing.

Ser Lewyn broke first.

“I for once am glad to have been wrong, my lord.” He drawled slowly, a smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his black eyes.

“As it is with my knightly uncle, so it is with me, my lord.” The princess gave out, a genuine smile on her face. “Now, as we’re on the same tide, we need to return to the direction we were in before we learned just how many of us have tried to keep this realm together, even as it struggled to crumble. The citadel has been written and the raven is a wing, and we now need a master of coin. Are there any suggestions any present would like to put forth?”

“Princess, this revelation from Lord Staunton has given me a notion that I think would better serve this council, and thus the realm beyond.” Varys oozed out unctuously, his sharp eyes falling on Staunton. “We need an eye kept on Lord Tywin Lannister. A lion you can see is always better than a lion you cannot. Why not adjust our Lord Staunton into the Master of Coin position, while offering lawship to the Lannisters?”

The newly respected lord puffed up, the seams on his leather doublet audibly expanding as he thrust a ringed finger at the perfumed man, only to be cut off by the hand of the regent as she looked in curiosity at the man.

“Why would we shift Lord Staunton to the Master of coin position, rather than the richest man in the realm, Lord Varys?” She quested, a sincere confusion in her countenance.

He tittered again, a girlish sound that rang queerly from the bald, fat man.

“My princess, having served in this seat for several years now, one learns that all of the council positions aren’t equal, though they all ring the table. The handship is above all except the regent or ruler. The master of laws comes next. Then we find the master of coin, and below that chair, is the grandmaester and lastly, and most certainly leastly a place is found for the master of whispers.” He explained plainly, a lack of offense clear in his telling. “If we offer Tywin Lannister any position around this table, he’ll refuse for any below the master of laws. He was hand for twenty years; his golden pride would never let him accept the merchant’s chair. As we’ve learned of our dear lord Staunton however, he only wants the realm to prosper. Such a man as this would serve well in whatever capacity he’s found himself in, as a willing servant to the greatest good.”

Staunton had deflated as the spymaster continued, trapped like a fat bee in a web as he was wrapped and gifted to the jaws of the lion.

_Spider indeed._

Lewyn touched the hand of his niece, and drew her out of her frowned musings, a concerned twist to his sharp features.

“Your words make sense Lord Varys, but I’ve a real reluctance to entrust a chair to Lord Lannister. With Lord Tywin comes his retinue, and I’ll not see my children surrounded by red cloaked lions. I bore no love for my good-father and he me as all of us know, but his distrust of Lord Tywin is the one steady ground we shared. A Targaryen dynasty that has its king and adult prince can keep the lion in check, but a house lead by women and with its men buried is one that a lion would prowl around happily.” She stated plainly, a viper’s look in her eyes at the thought. “Lord Tywin will be brought into the fold, I assure you but I will not have him holding any part of the reins of power. He never forgave Aerys for spurning his daughter, and that loathing passed onto me when I took what he felt was _her_ place.”

Her uncle snorted in displeasure, his eyes falling on his spear that rested against the far wall.

“How about Ser Jon Connington?” He asked the table, his hand dancing on the table’s edge.

At that the room shifted uncomfortably, as each recollected the experiences they’d shared with the man.

“He’s too…..” Lord Staunton led off, ending in nothing as he squirmed in his seat in a rather boyish manner.

“He’s just soooo…” Varys continued before he gave up with a shrug and a giggle.

“He’s too much.” The princess mother concluded, irritation clear in her voice. “You’re right my lords, he’s entirely too much Ser Jon. And that is precisely why I’d rather him over Lord Lannister. That fool loved the air my husband breathed, and I’d rather have that same loyalty, that same zeal serving my children’s best interest, than a power hungry brutal’e lurking around them, watching them and judging them because they’re not blonde and green eyed. The sheer memory of Rhaegar will keep that man working in our children’s favor, whilst Lord Lannister has no such emotional ties.”

“Well, when you put it like that Princess, there can be no other man. Unless we want to make overture to the rebels?” Lord Symond asked, a speculative look in his eye.

“Lord Jon was who my uncle and I decided on days ago. Even as we speak, ships sail across the Narrow Sea to bring him home.” She offered, adding as she saw Staunton puffing up once again. “This wasn’t a mere formality my lords. The reasoning given in regards to Lord Tywin and any others _IS_ sound. It’s just not what we think is best. Now, onto the terms we will offer to the rebels.”

The Stormlord was clearly drunk, even at this parlay.

The censoring eyes that both his foster brother and father sent him went ignored, as he sweated through his leathers, his face further flushing by each additional second.

“Where’s Lyanna?!” He grumbled for the third time in as many minutes, his maimed hand pressed to his brow.

“See here Baratheon, you’ll not make demands of –“ Ser Jaime was cut off by Eddard Stark shoving to his feet in the small room, his furred cloak and height making him look even bigger.

“I don’t care for your threats Kingsguard.” He warned, his steel colored eyes cold unto death. “Lord Baratheon might be acting rudely, but he’s right.” And now he looked to the slim woman at the head of the table. “WHERE IS MY SISTER?!” He snarled, the light from the candled sconces flashing on the direwolf on his steel gorget.

At the volume, Ser Barristan stepped forward, drawing his sword from the sheath, the loaded sound familiar to every man present in the room.

The man who Prince Duncan Targaryen called the Bold allowed his eyes to frost, steadily meeting those of the Wolf.

Neither looked away, until the gnarled hand of old Jon Arryn found the northman’s brawny forearm and gave it a cooling squeeze.

Princess Elia waited until Ser Barristan stepped back and the glowering northman regained his seat.

Lord Staunton harrumphed at the table, only ceasing when the sharp brow of Ser Lewyn turned his way.

“Lords Stark and Baratheon, I’ve no way to say this but plainly.” At this, her eyes fell on the two Kingsguard behind each man, facing each other across the table. She took a slow breath before girding herself and pushing ahead. “Lady Lyanna passed days ago, from childbed fever. The babe is fine, a healthy boy but I regret to inform you, your sister and your betrothed (she turned to each man in turn) has gone to the gods.”

A stunned silence draped the room, as each man absorbed the blow.

Lord Jon Arryn turned saddened blue eyes onto the northman next to him, a comforting arm falling towards his shoulders.

The man the realm called the Quiet wolf accepted this consolement bitterly, tears falling from his reddened eyes.

The Baratheon however, gave his house words life, attacking the oak table they sat around with his enormous hands. The goblets and decanters danced and even fell over as the man who earned the moniker of the Demon of the trident smashed his fists into the wood, not even seeming to register the rapidly staining bandages on his right.

“WE SHOULD’VE KILLED THEM ALL NED!” The man roared, uncaring of the sword that whipped from Jaime Lannister’s scabbard at his back. “JUST LIKE I TOLD YOU, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE DRAGON LOVING FILTH SHOULD DIE! HE RAPED HER, AND THEN LEFT HER TO WHELP OUT HIS SPAWN, THE COWARD! AERYS, RHAEGAR……ALL OF THEM SHOULD BE PUT TO THE SWORD! SHE WAS NEARLY A CHILD STILL, AND LOOK WHAT HE DID TO HER. MADMEN, EVERY FUCKING ONE OF THEM-!”

By then, Lord Arryn was on him, showing a surprising amount of strength and vigor for his advanced years as he swiftly moved from Lord Stark’s side and bundled his ranting foster son from the chair and then the room itself, ignoring the deadly promise in Jaime Lannister’s cat eyes as he held his sword at the ready, only awaiting the order from his princess.

The Princess Mother was clearly shaken by the intensity of the hatred the man felt for the royal family, his own distant blood. Her uncle abandoned his seat and strode to her side, kneeling and murmuring a few low words into her trembling ear.

Together, two pairs of dark Dornish eyes fell upon the still form of Lord Eddard Stark.

Lord Staunton made to get up, and begin righting the toppled cups and pitchers, only to pause when the quiet rumble from the northman fell on the room.

“Where’s the babe?” He nearly growled, his bur thickening in his wrath. “Bring me what the south has left me of my sister, or I promise the north will fall on the south like a giant on a seed.”

Lord Varys coughed and started, “Let’s just give a moment of air to the room my-. “

“NOW and if you try and put me off again Eunuch, I promise blood on these walls.” He swore, a contemptuous curl to his lip as he eyed Ser Jaime and Lewyn in turn.

At that, Ser Barristan stepped forward again, an infuriated bite to his tone as he raised his sword to the man’s back.

“Now listen here, you kingslaying-. “ Only to be cut off by the graceful hand of Princess Elia as she gave her uncle a small nod.

The room held its breath, even as Stark wept silent, furious tears as the Dornish knight swiftly left the room, only to return minutes later with a fearful handmaiden holding a small bundle.

The hand gestured her forward, and she obeyed, slowly though, as if the northman was the living creature on his sigil.

Ned Stark stood up as soon as he understood what she held, looming over the poor girl and swallowing her in his shadow.

The same leashed violence that had ensnared the man moments ago was lost, as he gently accepted the child from the terrified woman.

His large hands cupped the babe delicately, as if he was made of glass and he released a deep breath that softened the mood of the room imperceptibly.

His thick fingers softly pulled the blankets away from the child’s face, and a small smile cracked the lines of his face as he beheld his nephew.

Ser Barristan had seen the boy in the days since his mother’s death, when Princess Elia looked in on him.

A small wrinkled face, and rosy cheeks that refused to smile, no matter how much he was cooed at and poked.

Now though, Barristan saw something akin to love rest on the long face of the rebel, as he cupped the boy close and breathed him in.

“You look like your mother lad.” He whispered to the infant who watched him in return, a solemn regard in the face as he stared into silver eyes that mirrored his own. “But you’re as quiet as Ben was, when he was a babe. You’ll love Winterfell and young Robb as well. A direwolf of the north, you’ll be.” He crooned, utterly ignoring anyone else in the room.

“What did my sister name him?” He asked to the room, his eyes still fast on the child in his hands.

“She called him Jaehaerys when the maester told her it was a boy.” The handmaiden offered timidly, shrinking back as the Lord of Winterfell pierced her with a heavy gaze. “But when he was placed in her arms, she laughed and said he looks like a Jon.” She finished, wilting in relief when he turned back to the boy he held as if a treasure, affirming his name to the room.

“Jon Stark.” He proclaimed, a catch to his words as he smiled down at the boy.

“Leave us Terris, and wait outside the door.” Princess Elia ordered curtly, turning back to the tall northman as he cradled the boy in his arms.

The sweep of her dress was all that announced her exit to the room.

“Was her end painful?” He asked gruffly, his eyes wet as he cooed to the child. “Was she alone at the end?” He raised his head then and looked at her, eyes and nose red with grief.

“No my lord, she wasn’t alone at the end. She’d had handmaid’s holding her hand, and the maester had given her a strong dosage of milk of the poppy, when it was clear the bleeding wouldn’t stop.” She spoke softly, wary of setting him off the way his foster brother did.

“GODS!” He barked, the tendons in his neck straining as he looked on his nephew, an ugly rumbling cry fighting its way up his throat. “Rhaegar, you sanctimonious, selfish prick. I’ll kill you every night in my dreams, I swear this.” He coughed out, a grimace of futile agony twisting his face.

“For all that my late husband was, or was not my lord…he WAS Jaehaerys’s sire.” She said slowly, making sure to enunciate her words as to not alarm him. “His place is here, with his siblings.”

“As a hostage, you mean?” Lord Stark barked with a bitter laugh. “Never. The south has had enough from the Starks; I’ll not leave him behind in this vipers nest.” He vowed his hands now possessive around the boy.

“Lord Stark, I have no wish to cause Winterfell any more sorrow than certain people of this castle already have, but the boy must stay here. At least for a few years, so there might be love between him and his siblings.” Ser Lewyn entered the fray, with a calm and circumspect air.

“LOVE?!” He barked, incredulity adding youth to his face. “Will he be Jon Stark in these blood red halls? Or will he be Jaehaerys Waters?” He demanded, a hot rage making his eyes storm clouds. “Better yet, it makes no difference. A Stark will never be loved in this city and a Water’s even less.”

“He’ll be a Waters my lord, as all bastards born in this city are.” Princess Elia ground out, her frustration beginning to boil in the stuffy room.

Stark just looked at the boy, intently studying his features as he disregarded her rising ire.

The room just watched as the bloody warrior enjoyed the child’s weight in his arms, the fragility of the child at odds with the armor his uncle wore.

“Did she go with him willingly, or was it a kidnapping for true?” He growled his shoulders tense with expectation. “Did he marry her, or was it just a ride and rape for my sister?” He bit out, hatred making his voice rasp.

A pin drop would’ve sounded like a mummers show, the room was so still.

When no one answered, he turned away from the boy and looked at the faces around the table.

Barristan made sure he kept his face as still as the grave but something gave the northman his answer.

“I believe-“Elia started, only for brogueish laughter to escape the northman.

“Dammit Lya, you little fool, you just had to marry the prick.” His laughter was loud and ugly, for the bitterness it spouted from was easily seen.

It stopped as quickly as it began, and he was silent once again.

His finger traced the boy’s features, as if committing them to memory.

“You’ll pay us two million dragons from Aerys’s coffers, to be divided between the three of us.” He stated with iron in his bearing. He looked away from the child again, letting his hard eyes fall on Princess Elia. “This will be done to foster goodwill and see to setting the realm to rights. You will also bequeath Summerhall to House Baratheon, and then pay for its rebuilding via Dragonstone’s coffers. You’d not want the castle anyways, surrounded on all sides by the storm lords. Lastly, on my nephew’s fifth nameday, you will send him north to me. At a later date, he will be legitimized with a name of MY choosing, and that will be the end of this.”  


Ser Lewyn rose sharply at this, his hand fisted around the hilt of the sword he still bore at his side.

“You dare too much northman!” He erupted, his long greying hair flying as he faced down the taller young man. “Nearly three million dragon’s, you’d have from us? What then, is the price of treason?!” He hissed, anger and disgust dripping from his eyes.

“What treason do you speak of dornishman?” Stark barked, as he stood tall, unimpressed with the other man. “YOUR KING CALLED FOR THE HEADS OF ME AND MY FOSTER BROTHER, AFTER HE MURDERED MY LORD FATHER AND BROTHER WITHOUT TRIAL. THE BONDS OF FEALTY GO BOTH WAYS, AND YOUR LUNATIC KING SHATTERED THEM, WHILE MANY WATCHED IN SILENCE, INCLUDING SOME IN THIS VERY ROOM!” He roared, his volume startling the boy, who fixed his face to cry, only to stop when his uncle looked down and hushed him softly.

“You lot served at the foot of madness. You gave it the graces, and said nothing when good people were burned alive, for stealing bread or cakes or fighting in taverns.” He grilled them now, contempt and disdain a tangible flame in his eyes. “For demanding to know where their sisters are.” He lamented softly.

“We’ll have the gold and the castle, and in five years I’ll have the boy, or I promise you this war will continue. I’ll hire companies and raise more armies, and the south will choke on their dead.” He affirmed this with a sweep of his eye around the room.

Lord Staunton was out of his seat then as well, his lardy body quivering as he thrust a finger at the significantly larger man.

“You treasonous cur, how dare you make demand’s as if you have any leg to stand on?! You’re the rebel, and you don’t dictate the terms of peace. I don’t know what passes for diplomacy in that savage wasteland you call home but-!” He would’ve continued but Princess Elia slammed her hands flat on the table, openly wincing at the pain it caused her.

Both men looked away from each other then, Staunton with clear frustration from his being interrupted midwind, while Stark looked expectant.

“If we agree to this Lord Stark, then we’ll definitely have peace?” She asked him, steel straightening her spine. “Not a peace today and then more war on the morrow? But a real lasting peace, one our children might be able to grow up in Promise me that, and I’ll agree.”

Lord Eddard Stark held the boy close for a moment, nuzzling his cheek and inhaling deeply, as if taking his scent into memory.

“Yes Princess, you meet these terms and we’ll have a peace. We’ll even send home the lions that are at the door.” He pledged a chilly look in his eye as he gazed out the far window, which faced the Blackwater Rush.

He extended his hand to her then, and merely waited, the bundle of baby tucked into the crook of his other arm.

The emotions on the faces of the other members of the council were clear.

Staunton was angry, and still prepared to argue.

Varys was his usual enigmatic self, but there was a push of displeasure to his look.

Lewyn was resigned, and tired and hopeful all at once.

Elia took the large hand that was offered to her, and almost expected him to crush her hands, to assert his victory over her.

Instead, he gave it a brief squeeze and then released her, content to absorb the babe once more.

He sat his sturdy bulk down in the chair, and just cupped the child closely.

The other council members made to leave, Elia waiting till the last before she had Terris come back for Jaehaerys.

As she made to leave with Ser Barristan at her back, the northman’s rumble caught her.

He was looking longingly after the handmaid as she took his kin away, but his voice was cool as he addressed her.

“Princess, might we have a word alone?” He questioned, an openness to his stern face that hadn’t been present in the meeting.

“You must be mad if you think I’ll leave the Princess Mother alone with you, northman!” Spat Ser Barristan, his sword easily slipping from its place at his waist.

“You will if she asks it of you, ser.” Was the cold response. “It’ll only be a minute of your time, Princess.”

She paused, staring at the man for a second and then the dark doorway the knight held open in anticipation of her exit.

“Close the door please Ser Barristan, I’m quite alright.”

She saw that he wanted to protest but she’d already turned to face the fur cloaked man.

He looked more lion than wolf now, with his heavy ruffed cloak and bearded face.

“Do you have a quill and scroll present Princess?” He asked politely, a sharp contrast to the ferocious man he’d been before.

Confused, she pointed to the small tableau to the side and he rose and helped himself, bringing scrolls, quill and an ink pot to the center table.

“My father taught Brandon and myself that fealty is like a cloak that two people in a blizzard must share.” He said softly, even as he wrote evenly on the scrolls before him. “He said that if one tries to take all of it for themself, the other will be exposed and vulnerable. But if both understand that all they have is the one cloak, mayhaps they can resolve to share it so that both are covered and neither goes without, and both might survive the cold.”

She cleared her throat, unease sitting heavy in her chest.

“Your father was a very wise man Lord Stark. If more lords’s understood what your father did, this realm would be so much better for all, people born great and low.” She affirmed, that heaviness falling to her belly now.

He looked up briefly from his writing, an indiscernible look to his visage that sent the stone to her toes.

“I say this Princess, to make this known to you. Your husband, spat on the cloak he shared with the north. Plain as I can be, this is what he did. Your good-father, then shat on it, if you will excuse my frankness. We’ve shared this cloak with the Targaryen dynasty since Aegon first landed. Now, if you will, silently please.” He slid the parchment to her and sat back as she read.

_WE ARE DONE WITH THE SOUTH._

_WE WILL PAY YOU OUR TAXES, UNTIL ONE DAY, WE DO NOT._

_WE ARE DONE WITH THE SOUTH._

_THERE WILL BE PEACE, BUT WE ARE DONE WITH THE SOUTH._

_WE ARE KNITTING A NEW CLOAK, AND IT WON’T BE SHARED WITH THE SOUTH._

She looked up, bewildered and troubled.

“My Lord Stark, I don’t understand. You cannot mean what I think you mean, not with this.” She was stammering now, something close to panic grabbing her by the throat.

He merely grabbed a close goblet and poured some water into it, before offering it to her. She took a deep gulp, taking a calming breath as she eyed him over the rim, even as he merely pointed with his finger to a line he’d written.

_THERE WILL BE PEACE, BUT WE ARE DONE WITH THE SOUTH._

_WE ARE KNITTING A NEW CLOAK, AND IT WON’T BE SHARED WITH THE SOUTH._

His heavy boots were loud on the stone floor, as he sailed from the room, leaving her to choke and splutter as she felt the walls of the room close in.

_  
end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, feedback is expected and desired. It's the least you could do.


	4. Stuff

The Red Keep

Year 291 AC

Jaehaerys Waters

_Lord Connington was right. I am stupid._

He’d fallen for this trick so many times, and after, he promised on a northman’s toe that it was the last time. Yet, here he was again; wandering the castle’s hidden spaces that his older siblings locked him into, whenever they decided to play Toe to Peep. Rhaenys tricked him this time, Tyene the Sand Snake the last time.

They were probably right now in Rhaenys solar, eating sweets and candies and laughing at the stupid bastard Waters.

_He always wants to play with us, as if we’d let Dirty Waters in our games. He’s always sweaty, stupid and ugly, with his face as long as Ser Menlick’s boots! If we desired to play with a damp dog, we’d go get Pip Pip from Dany’s room!_

He’d overheard those exact words once, when he’d taken an early turn and rather than coming out below the maesters tower, he found himself in Maegor’s Holdfast, right next to Princess Rhaenys room.

That had hurt, to hear the happiness in their voices as they laughed at him.

He never thought himself ugly when he’d looked into the reflective glass in his room.

He did look different from his brother and sister, with their tan skin against his pale tones, not to mention the purple eyes they shared in comparison to his grey stone eyes.

And the sweaty thing was something he couldn’t help. It was so hot in the south; a few minutes of outside air would leave his tunic stuck to his body.

He’d consoled himself with the thought that if they knew he could hear them, they would’ve never been so mean openly.

Rhaenys was always smarter about it than her Dornish cousins, or maybe it was just an agreement they’d all come to. The crown princess could never be so low, it wouldn’t be proper.

Rhaenys would never start it, it was almost always either Tyene or Nymeria.

One of the Snakes would stare at Jon at a meal, and then behind cupped hands whisper in the ear of the one next to them. Who’d get up and approach the dais and Rhaenys would always find her feet so primly, and approach her cousins and give them her ear. Then they’d clap their hands over their mouths and muffle their laughter, before saying something else, all the while staring at him.

Jon had once asked Ser Lerayne Darry what it meant when girls stared at you and then whispered to each other. The tall blonde knight had thrown back his wavy mane and peered down at him, something approaching fondness in his light brown eyes.

“Well lad (they never called him my prince or my lord) it normally means they like you.” He smiled then, a bright blade of crooked white teeth in an open face. “Why, some courtier’s daughters been giving you the giggly eyes?” He teased, daring a look around before ruffling Jon’s dark brown locks.

Jae could only blush and shy for a second before finding his courage.

“No Ser, it’s the Snakes and Rhaenys. They give me the giggly eyes at meals but.-”

At that, the hand that had been mussing his hair fell to his shoulders and gave a comforting squeeze, taking care to mind the thin, still growing bones of the boy.

“Ah, I think I understand now.” He breathed out, his crisp riverlands accent making the sadness cut even deeper into Jon’s chest. “The game those girls are playing, isn’t a nice one. My older cousins used to play a similar trick on me when I was around your age, and it didn’t stop until I got old enough to not care. Friends of my own age made that possible for me. Has the little princess been playing this game with her cousins as well Jae?” He asked seriously, his face concerned as he looked down on Jon. Ser Lerayne wasn’t as tall as others, he was certainly smaller than Ser Barristan and everyone was smaller than Ser Menlick Coldwater, as he was almost seven feet tall he’d heard Aegon boast. But in that moment, Ser Lerayne looked like a giant who just might be in Jae’s corner.

_But if I tattle, then Rhaenys will never like me. And then Prince Oberyn will discipline his daughters and then they’ll give me the snake stare the next time I ask to play with them._

Instead, he just forced a smile and shook his head no, waving off more agitated prodding from Ser Darry as he hurried into his room, the only occupied room in the Maidenvault.

It was just a game, after all.

And now, he was stuck playing another game once again.

He’d been the fool for their trickery for so long, he didn’t even need to shout or scream for help to be saved from the darkness.

He just counted the hallway breaks, his left hand on the dusty walls as a guiding rock.

It was five hallway breaks if you entered into the hidden passages by the Maekar statue outside the throne room, twelve if you ventured in by the granary.

Once someone got over the skittering of mice and the tickle of spiders, it was almost nice being able to move so quickly through the keep. It only took Jon three years to stop shrieking at every creeping thing that shared the darkness with him.

It was either that, or scream the castle down.

And no matter that his face might be as long as Ser Menlick Coldwater’s enormous boot, or he might be as thick as a northman’s beard, Jaehaerys Waters was no craven.

It didn’t hurt that Lord Varys himself taught him the secret of moving through the walls silently and swiftly. It was after the fifth time he’d been pushed in by his sibling and her cousins that the perfumed man told him, if it was going to keep happening, he might as well make it easier on both of them by learning the secret of his ancestor.

Now, he just took a low candle that someone so kindly left at a height he could reach, and began the trek to his rooms.

He was almost two hall breaks away from freedom when he heard a word that was nearly forbidden in the castle said, in the booming tones of a man he intensely disliked.

“-Starks cannot be trusted, Your Grace. Yes, they’ve paid their taxes and make no noise, but a silent wolf is still a wolf.” Lord Jon Connington griped, his face probably as red as his hair going by the huffing Jon could pick up on.

Jon stepped closer, putting his face nearer to the wall.

“Lord Connington, you forget that I’ve been here. While you were across the sea in Essos, I was living a nightmare, first with Aerys and then with the wolves at my gates. I sat in a room with Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon and was able to draw something livable out of hatred, grief and malice.” His brother’s royal mother seldom raised her voice, but hearing her so clearly, made it clear to Jon that she’d elevated hers to a volume to match the griffin lord.

“My princess, we’ve had a respite, truthfully but these men aren’t men to sit and do nothing in the breathing moments. Mayhaps Robert is, but not a man like Eddard Stark. Nor is Stannis Baratheon such a man either.” Lord Jon grumbled, an unworthy whine in his tone.

“Of course Lord Connington, it always comes back to Stannis for you.” Chirped Lord Staunton, or the pigeon lord as Aegon proclaimed him once. “Make peace with the loss of lands, as every other stormlord did already. You let this grudge fester, and it will pop like a boil, on King Aegon’s realm!”

A chair was thrust back, scraping over the stone floor.

“You know nothing of what it’s like Staunton! To see such a traitorous family be rewarded at my families expense. Even now, Summerhall looms tall over the marches, and I must see men garbed in black and bronze riding across what once were MY LANDS!” He shouted, his uncle vein probably throbbing as it was wont to do when the man got upset.

“Enough with this old tale Connington.” Came the smoky snap of Lord Anders Yronwood, hand of the king to Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name. The enigmatic Bloodroyal, he was a man whose eyes never missed. If the Martells had eyes like vipers, then the Hand of the king had the eyes of a hawk. “It’s been eight years my lord. There’s more to worry about than a Baratheon rider trampling on a bush your great grandfather fucked a milkmaid behind. Though I do share your misgivings on the northmen. The tales my men hear from the wharfs speak of seeing red lands as far as a gaze will allow, from the decks of the ships that approach White Harbor.” He finished quietly, a frown likely on his rocklike face.

“The tales are not just tales, my lord.” Lord Varys cut in smoothly, an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. “My little birds, the few that I have up in the cold climes all chirp the same song to me. The grass of the north is now a blood red, and the soil is a dark grey. The trees up north sprout from the earth black, as if charred by fire. It is sorcery my lords, and it springs from Winterfell.” He stated, a strong dislike in the coldness of his voice.

Grandmaester Earlen plowed in here, a rude snort making his Reach accent even snootier, if possible.

“Sorcery?” He scoffed, his chair squeaking as he shifted his weight. “This isn’t Essos, spymaster, where such frivolities are tolerated. This is Westeros, where learned men have carved a realm absent such mummery. My lords, let me write the citadel. I’ll have them sift the rumor from the reality of these outlandish tales.

_Red grass, with grey soil. I’m hardly ever allowed to even leave the keep but even if I imagine the gardens here to be changed to such colors, what a sight that would be._

“Write all the letters necessary Grandmaester, but these rumbles must have some seed in truth I imagine.” Princess Elia directed calmly, her control over the room taut. “Anything else to report my lords?” She asked with courtesy and grace painting her very breath.

“Black apple sour, yet again my Princess, or blapple sour as the common man calls it.” Came from Lord Varys. “It’s becoming quite the popular drink in the Vale and riverlands. The Reach is holding fast against it, too loyal to the Arbor to allow the encroachment of any new vintages but once it finds a home in the westerlands, it’ll only be a matter of time before it’s sold in taverns here.”

“We don’t want it, Eunuch.” Lord Connington growled, the rumble even irritating Jon’s ears through the wall he listened at.

“I’m afraid Lord Connington, it seems only _you_ don’t want it. In the vale and riverlands, for every twenty casks of arbor gold or a dornish red that have been procured through trade over the past year, eight casks of blapple sour are purchased. It was at one cask three years ago. And this doesn’t count the other vintage that precedes the sour. Honeymint glide is also a regular on many tavern boards, as well as in many a lord’s wine cellar.” He took a breath there, and Jon heard his rings jingle as if he twisted them. “There is more, my friends. Ironeye is currently being consumed in large measures by the Braavosi and the sellsword companies of the east after first proving popular elsewhere, while the granaries of the north are bursting with stock and the larders with meat. They’ve even taken to mashing some of the black sour apples into mush, and then sweeting it with a bit of maple. They call it apple schass, and it keeps extremely long. Barrels of it are being stacked in castles. Eddard Stark may have magicked some sorcery to turn the grass lands of his home red, but it’s putting gold in his coffers, and in a great blinding flood. The Mormonts are funneling the expansive wealth afforded by their two vintages into expanding their hall into a castle, with stone and mortar for the foundation. The Glovers of Deepwood Motte are doing the same with the wealth raised from selling ironwood and most importantly, their Ironeye elixir. Gold is flowing into the north at an alarming rate, and the wolves of Winterfell are licking the shine off every single coin. The eastern side of the north, my birds hear very little of, I’m afraid.” He confessed with a smug tilt to his tone. “It’s too spread out, and settlements are distant there. But I doubt there’s a lack of industry for that side, as Eddard Stark has proven himself too canny to only allow a small portion of his bannermen to prosper.” Varys ended there, his fluster at his own report evident.

“From how the eunuch speaks, he’d expect us to believe Eddard Stark is now Garth Greenhand come again?” Connington scoffed rudely, mockery thick in his voice. “What, did Stark plant his thumb in the snow, and now life itself is enriching the barren tundra he calls home? No, Lord Varys, no. If all the Spider can offer us is fables and japes, why not replace the fool?” He snarled, Jon easily imagining his red face, splotchy and twisted to match his silly hair.

“This spat helps none of us my lords.” Princess Elia bit in, her weariness unmistakable even to Jon as he listened. He could see her clearly, even with the wall between them. Her brown eyes ringed with dark circles, and her mouth pinched. “There’s a simple enough solution to this northern mystery. Jaehaerys has been owed a fostering to the lands of his mother since his fifth nameday, as was the agreement his lord uncle and I came to. He’s now approaching his seventh nameday, and I know the wolves sit in their cold castle and growl over this, yet another broken contract with the iron throne. I confess, I did extend his stay by some time, in the hopes that some warmth might have developed between him and his siblings. Him leaving with ill feelings between them was something I had hoped to avoid at all costs. Sadly, they are still at odds, and I’m ashamed to say it’s my children that play the obstacle to filial affections. I say, it’s time we send Master Waters to his grim uncle, and as a means of ears to the soil, or snow if you will, send Prince Viserys along, on a progress of the north with the official reason being to escort his nephew, and visit the Wall and the great uncle of my children that serves there. We’d send Sers Lerayne and Menlick as their Kingsguard. Viserys is almost thirteen namedays, and blooming with teenage self-importance. Let this be a trusted mission for the boy, and give the royals of the capitol a break from his presence.”

There were more words shared, with varying degrees of support or reluctance but Jon didn’t hear any of it.

All he could remember was that he’d be going north, to see the place where his mother grew up, and the people looked like him. Where his uncle lived, and had wanted Jon to live with him for the past two years.

_Somebody wants me?_

The word Stark was rarely said in the red keep, and certainly almost never in his presence.

The few times he’d heard it said, the speaker made it sound a curse, a vile word that would get them a bar of soap in the mouth. The dornish cousins of the royal children were especially adept at twisting it into a slur, their thick accents almost spitting the word at Jon when they were particularly hostile.

_I might be free from the sneers of the sand snakes, and the angry stare of Lord Connington? I’ll miss Dany a little, but you don’t see Dany without Viserys somewhere close._

The griffin lord was always happy to inflict himself on Jon when he appeared to be happy about something, and he was no different that day.

“I feel this would be a grave mistake Princess.” Jon Connington stated bluntly, his caterpillar eyebrows probably touching. “If the Spider is right, and I make no reservations of my doubts plainly free, to send the bastard to his uncle would remove one of the leashes we keep on these wayward wolves. If we can’t make them heel by the traditional methods the crown used, food support as per the past rulers, this boy is perhaps our only stay on their ambitions. At the last meeting, the eunuch told us that the north has opened up trading lanes with Yi-ti, and this they did without first asking the consent of the throne. This is too far, my lords. As master of laws, it falls to me to outline that these actions the Starks have taken, constitute treason, petty though it may appear. The king decides who the kingdoms can trade with, beyond the realms borders, and Yi-ti has never been one we sought out. To send them the boy now, would only be a reinforcement of their willfulness. I say we cow them first, and then debate the merits of sending the bastard to their den.” He ended with a huff, contempt that he never hesitated to share with Jon heavy in his voice.

“I agree with Lord Connington, Princess.” Came the low tones of Lord Staunton. Jon never really liked him either. “I say make them earn the right to foster the bastard Waters, and do so by acquiring a measure of tractability. These wolves have exponentially raised their fortunes, Lord Varys says? Fine, let this influx of wealth be represented in their taxes given. We’ve yet to recover from the peace payments made to the rebel houses, nor the strain from the rebuilding of Summerhall. I’d rather the blood and sweat be drawn from the northmen, than the people of the south that held true to honor.”

A silence sat on the room for a moment, and Jon pondered about just continuing on to his chamber, as it was clear that the idea of him going north, to anywhere but here was swiftly dying before his eyes, well ears.

“It has merit to be sure.” Lord Yronwood mused, his fingers tapping on the table audible to Jon. “I make no aspersions on you Princess, but I misliked these payouts to the rebels from when the news was first made known to me. Men should not profit from treason, even if that treason was justified.” He drawled out, his tapping slowly ending as he shifted, the chair scraping on the floor shrill to Jon’s ears. “What say you, The Bold? You’ve been quiet, so let us hear what a man of inoppugnable honor would say.”

The clatter of armor could be heard as well as a deep sigh, as the most storied knight alive gave his say.

“I don’t like the Starks. Brandon was a hotheaded, womanizing fool, and his sister was a tart. Eddard Stark is a traitorous murderer, and I promise one day there will be a setting to rights there. Rickard was an alright sort, but he raised stupid children.” Ser Barristan said all this in a crisp voice, each word a dagger into the chest of the small boy that listened. _Is this what he thinks when he sees me?_ “All that being said, if my Princess gave her pledge to Lord Stark that she’d send the boy north, send the boy north. It’s not his honor being impugned by the disrespecting of an oath, but the king’s, in whose stead we rule. The boy isn’t happy here, and is being continually isolated by the circumstances of his birth. My princess, your nieces don’t play with him, and neither do your children. Give him a chance of a happy childhood, even if it is in the frozen halls of that wasteland, and your children will be less likely to be usurped by him. Send the wolf pup to the north, I say.”

Jon had always thought Ser Barristan liked him well enough, for he was never the scary man that Lord Connington was or Prince Oberyn could be at times.

It was like ice cold water down the back of his tunic to hear what he thought of the people Jon’s mother came from.

Jon might be grateful for his support to his northern fostering, but he’d never forget the chilliness of his sentiments.

When the conversation resumed, it turned towards points that Jon had no interest in, things about Viserys and Lord Tywin’s golden daughter. She’d always stared at him as if he were horse dung on her arm whenever she visited the capitol, and if she was as mean as she was pretty, Viserys deserved her.

He got up from his sore knees, sucking his teeth a bit at the pain and then walked on, anticipating a scolding from Ser Lerayne for where he’d been missing since dusk.

Winterfell

291 AC

Eddard Stark

He waved at the tall thin form of his brother from the covered bridge as he thundered into the courtyard, his long body draped in the black his elder brother and lord still denied him.

Benjen gave a tentative nod to his liege, even as he easily swung down from the saddle and dusted himself off.

Ned blew out a breath and turned away, putting his mind back on the matter of the day.

Today was the day, but she wouldn’t make it easy for him.

His wife was avoiding him, he knew.

As this day of rooting approached, he’d seen or felt her eyes heavily on him, as she sought to keep a distance between him and his youngest, the little howler they named Arya after his grandmother.

Weeks ago, he’d frequently catch sight of his wolfish daughter being a terror in the arms of a frazzled servant or nurse, but as the time of the ritual drew close, the sightings stopped, and he’d often find his wife toting little Arya in her own arms possessively, her blue eyes baleful whenever they met his grey.

For Robb’s rooting, she gaped.

Sansa’s she threatened, making him wonder if it would have come to blood had she been armed.

For this one, clearly she meant to hide her away from her heathen father until the moment of danger passed.

_I didn’t believe she’d grown to know the twists and turns of this castle so well, yet here I am, peeking around corners like a child at play, hoping to see twist of her skirts or shawl._

“My lord, I believe if you seek her ladyship, I may have last seen her heading towards the glass gardens.” Alyn, one of the loyal guards of Winterfell offered conspiratorially. “With the prin-I mean little lady…If that’s what you sought, that is.”

Ned just clapped a warm hand on his muscular shoulder and squeezed it fondly as he nodded his thanks.

“Soon enough, Alyn. Soon enough that day will come.” He said softly as he walked past the man.

He strode through the halls briskly now, an apparent destination quickening his stride.

All throughout Winterfell, there was an air of anticipation and hope that suffused the castle and it’s denizens.

_A far cry from the first time this day had been observed_

Then, Catelyn had a staunch supporter in her stand against sorceries and sacrileges, as she called this newly enacted ceremony _._

Maester Luwin was a good man, and a loyal servant of the castle but in those days leading up to the Bone in Rooting, he’d come perilously close to insubordinate, calling it all northern superstitions and foolishness. Ned had half a mind to banish the man from the castle, so exhausted he’d been with the two sided attack.

Only upon the witnessing of the day, did he lose one half of his headache, and then gained a staunch ally.

_Cat never broke from her opposition though, and now she fights me on this doubly as hard as if to make up for the loss of her once ally._

He stepped into the gigantic glass miracle, as Maester Luwin called it when he first settled into Winterfell with a soft foot, undesiring of spooking her.

As always, he felt the familiar bead of sweat trickle down his back as the southern summer heat of the place introduced itself to him.

He could see her in the far rear of the dome, her sunset aflame hair tilted low and to the side, no doubt keeping her cheek pressed to the dark brown curls of their daughters head.

As he approached he coolly nodded and signaled the men and women who kept this great expanse of crops and flowers neat and tidy towards the entrance, seeing the need for privacy as he baited the mother of wolves in her den.

She was humming one of those southern hymns that the Andals are so fond of, as she looked over the yield of the greenhouse, taking gracefully measured steps among the rows of plenty. Their tiny daughter was dozing in a snug shawl sling that he knew his own mother had once mirrored, when Lyanna was a little thing.

Before willfulness and madness broke upon the realm.

“Cat.” He said softly, hating the way her shoulders tensed and she instinctively clutched Arya closer to her, as if he her own father was a threat to her safety. “Benjen has just rode in. It’s time, my lady.”

Little Arya misliked the handling of her mother and let it be known, with a scrunched face and a starting yowl.

One thing Ned could say about his southron wife, she never ran from him. Nor did she try and keep his children away from him.

He knew this, because as he stepped forward to soothe their daughter’s fit, she never shied away.

Her eyes were still blatantly mistrustful and wary on him, but she never moved even an inch, as he cupped the small head of the babe and twitched her nose before she could really get going, which always startled a giggle from her.

“Ned, I didn’t know what you sought to do in time to speak out for Robb, and I tried to appeal with a mother’s heart to you in regards to this tradition for Sansa, but I tell you this, not my Arya.” She stated firmly, her riverlands accent more starch in her seriousness. “These pagan rites you seek to impose upon my children and their futures. I’ll not have it, my lord husband.” The chilliness emanating from her blue river gaze was heavy, but Ned didn’t care.

“Do you think I don’t care about my children, my lady? Have I done anything that makes you question the affection and depths of my emotional attachment to their wellbeing?” He queried softly, a solemn look to his face.

She sighed then, a harsh sound almost ugly in the tranquility of the setting surrounding them.

“In all things, you’ve been a wonderful father and husband Ned. But this sorcery you insist upon, I can’t understand it. I fear it, and this might be unworthy of me, but I fear you as well at times, since you avow its importance, to both our family and the greater north.” She said, her lovely lips quivering with the profoundness of her emotion.

He wanted to scream then, for this was an old argument between them since Robb’s bone in.

She must have seen his frustration, for she drew Arya closer to her and made to step around him, claiming it necessary to meet with Vayon Poole for some task.

“You will stop, and you will listen Lady Stark. We’ve probably more children in our future, and by the old gods in truth, I canna do this every time.” He ordered, an echo of his father in his stance and his manner. “What are the origins of House Tully, my lady?” He asked coolly, a tension in his jaw that was mirrored in his wife’s as she turned to face him again.

“We Tully’s are of the riverlands, my lord.” She ground out, her arms bouncing Arya in her agitation, a blissfully ignorant coo coming from the babe.

“Don’t be witty, lady.” He warned, before he repeated his question. “What are the origins of your father’s house Catelyn?”

She met his force with her own, a glacial chill radiating from her eyes.

“We were a house of first men origins, until the-” She hissed out, and then her eyes narrowed as he broke in, interrupting her mid-sentence.

“Exactly Lady Stark. You are of the line of the first men, which was then swallowed by the invading Andal warlords. Why do you flee the rivers from which your line sprang?” He nearly begged her there, his frustration made plain by the vigor of his questioning.

“Because my father was anointed by oils in the light of the seven. As was my mother. And her mother. And his father. We may have first men roots, but we turned from them long ago husband.” She said flatly, a real bite to her words now.

“But you married the north.” He ground out hoarsely. “You didn’t marry into a house of knights. You married into the house of wolves. We keep the old gods here, and you knew this when you agreed to marry me. There is no sept in Winterfell. There’ll be no septon nor septas, for this is the place where the andal armies were broken. By marrying into house Stark, you wed into a house of legends and heroes. There is no greater bloodline on this continent, and the reason for that is largely because we stayed true to the old ways. When you step onto the ramparts and look, seeing blood red grass and charbark trees, this is because we know the old, and the old knows us.” He stated, a calm and steady lull to his voice.

She was already shaking her head, fierceness to the set of her brow.

“Are you ready to know what I did when I came to you in Riverrun, after the war was over? Are you ready now?”

She didn’t say anything but gave him her attention still, her mouth clamped.

“I went to the sorry excuse of a Godswood there, and I cut both palms and after placing them on the face of the Weirwood there, I fell to my knees and pleaded for northern strength, so that none may threaten my people. Begged the old gods in your childhood home to grant the north prosperity, so that we might not ever need to bow and scrape to the south again. I prayed for a weapon that should any seek to cow us again, we might strike them down. That was what I spent the night in your home doing. That was why I didn’t come to you. It was nothing you did or did not do my lady. It was something between me and my gods.” He confessed, a tiredness to his frame that wasn’t there before.

“I never knew my lord. I feared you weren’t happy with Robb, given his strong resemblance to my house.” She opined sadly, a vulnerability softening her face from its earlier fierceness.

He placed a heavy hand on her back, as he drew her closer, taking care of the child between them.

“Robb having your coloring means nothing but goodness to me, my lady. A healthy son was all I could hope for. Besides, for those who see, Robb has a nose like my brother, and the square jaw of my father, with a little Stark length to his face. The same of Sansa. Her colors are Tully, but the features are Stark touched.” He jested, pressing his nose to Arya’s cheek and inhaling her scent.

“But allow me to finish my lady. After we made it to Winterfell and you and the babe were settled in, I remember taking myself to the godswood to give thanks for safely coming home. It was there, that I was brought to know Trickle.” He took a breath there, memories of that night heavy still. He saw her jaw set mutinously and knew she was beginning to shut him out. “You know of whom I speak my lady. You’ve seen her twice now, and later today will be the third time. The old gods answered my prayer and sent her to me. To us. My lady, I cannot believe your piety will keep you from accepting that you’ve had the chance to see a legendary creature, alive and well.”

“A devil from the seven hells!” She spat venomously, her hands curled protectively around Arya again.

“A lady, who knows dragons were once in the skies, calls the history of our land a devil. Not a devil Cat, one of the old races from before the time of Andals. Children and giants once walked these lands freely, and now we know they still exist. And they’ve made a pact with us, as the last bastion of the first men. Garth Greenhand made the original pact, as he was the first king of the first men. And his lands spat the bounty of the earth into his hands. Now they have made a promise with us, and we draw gold from the land, in return for agreeing to be a shield to the singers and giants, when they come south. I do not endanger our children Lady Stark; I enrich the land for their sake and make them legends a living. My lady, Robb will be the first prince in the north in three hundred years, and the north he will inherit will be the mightiest realm this continent has ever seen. And if the gods are good, my nephew Jon will be a strong aid beside him. When all the wolves are in the den my lady, the north itself will rise.”

He’d scared her then, he saw.

It was evidenced by the slow steps she took backwards, away from him, her arms cupping Arya close.

He took a step forward for every step she took backwards.

“Catelyn, I’ve not been able to tell you this plainly, but I say it now. We’re done with the south. They’ve taken too much from the north, from Winterfell and I wash my hands of them. These changes you see as sacrilege aren’t that at all. We’re stepping into legend, and each step we take forward, we must cast off something old. The ranting of intolerant septons, the stuffy superiority of the maesters in regards to things they’re unfamiliar with. Maester Luwin understands and agrees with me.”(she scoffed there, a betrayed cast to her features) “This ceremony is merely a dedication to the line of her father, and anything else that might arise from it merely speaks to what’s better for the north as a whole.”

She was still afraid he saw, but she’d stopped moving.

“Give me my daughter, Lady Stark. It’s been time. Family, duty and honor.”

The ceremony was a small one, as the prior two were.

All gathered at the edge of one of the many springs of hot water that littered the Godswood, the white barked Weirwood tree at their side.

The Lord and lady of the castle were present, one unwillingly but it would suffice. In the arms of the lord of the north, was the child to be blessed. She was sleeping in her father’s palm, her face frowning even as she dreamt.

The maester was there, as his learning would possibly be needed. Lord Benjen stood behind his brother, still in his riding leathers and bearing witness.

The little lord and lady of the castle, Lord Robb Stark and Lady Sansa Stark were at the sides of their parents, Robb expectant and Sansa anxious.

That was it.

No others were present, for the importance of silence was paramount.

Both children had been taken aside and the need for quiet was stressed and pressed until a blood oath was taken, a small prick of blood signed to a fasted cloth.

They waited in silence for several minutes, the two young ones getting fidgety.

Until a twig snapped and a profound heaviness settled into the air.

Lady Catelyn felt the air thicken in her lungs and her hand clutched at her daughters beside her. She looked to her, and saw her breathing as if everything was fine, nothing different from normal. She looked to her left and saw her boy, her little prince looking nervously at the wooded acre before them.

She felt rather than saw Ned’s free hand fall upon her shoulders, pulling her closer and giving her a reassuring squeeze.

The sound of leaves being stepped on touched the ears of all present, and then it was there.

A small creature, no taller than Robb with a dappled face, with cat-like golden eyes. There were twigs and leaves weaved into a collage of woods and foliage, covering the slight body of the singer.

Sansa yelped in fright when she saw it, only for her uncle to step forward and kneel beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder and whispering words of ease and protection into her ear.

Robb had seen this once before so he put on a braver face, looking first up at the silhouette of his father and then adopting a similar stance, endearing on a boy of six name days rather than resolute.

It paid no mind to either child, its glowing eyes only on the babe in the palm of the lord’s hand.

Eddard Stark knelt slowly upon the muddy embankment, taking the utmost care to not jostle the daughter in his arms.

Catelyn Stark stood frozen in place, as if a one held a knife to her throat as the creature came closer, fighting every throbbing impulse to snatch up her children and run inside, locking the entity in here with the other madmen.

She forced warm air from her lungs and drew the cold air of the godswood inward, each inhalation a tally for how much she could stand of this madness.

When her husband rolled up the sleeve of his own tunic, baring a muscled forearm with two matching scars, and then did the same to her tiny daughter, she took an involuntary step forward, only stopping when the firm grip of her good-brother clasped her shoulders gently but firmly.

“Easy Lady Stark. We’ve done this two other times, and no harm has befallen the child. If you cannot trust our gods, trust your husband. Trust Ned.” Benjen murmured to her, before he released her with a squeeze.

The creature reached into its patchwork dress and drew out a tiny shard of a black stone that shined with a wine red glow as the light of the sun touched it.

It pressed a small, almost invisible dot on the whisper soft skin of the babe’s arm, delicate as a breeze. A small dab of blood welled up and Arya whimpered in discomfort, before the low tones of her father’s burr in her ears settled her.

The creature gave a light slash on Ned’s arm, a third to match the other two and let both sets of blood mix and clot on the shard.

Then, swift as a sparrow, it moved to the heart tree.

Taking the shard, Trickle put it to the weeping, grim countenance of the face.

It swabbed a dollop of the blood red sap from its eyes, before it pressed a three fingered hand to the tree n it hummed a song, so maddeningly eerie that Catelyn had to recite her prayers mentally to keep from screaming.

When the humming stops, it skipped away from the tree and approached Ned and the babe again.

By then, Arya’s grew eyes were open and she was doing her utmost imitation of her father’s frown.

He offered her his hand, a clean finger to gum on, as she so loved. 

Still frowning, she opened her mouth, toothless gums wide as she leaned forward.

Quick as a cat, the singer darted forward, placing the blood and sap mixture in the mouth of the girl.

The shard snapped and it was like the first moment she’d seen such a thing with Robb all over again, her first thought to make her babe spit it out, the danger of the shard being swallowed and slicing her child up from the inside.

But Arya just pulled away from the trick her father played on her, her little face twisted in disgust and anger.

She screamed now, not a hurt scream that every mother knows, but an enraged scream that was so particular to this child.

Her mouth had the sickening pool of blood and sap visible on her gums and tongue, but she did the same thing her elder brother and sister did. She swallowed it all, and puzzled her face at the taste, before screaming anew, reaching for her mother, her little arms waving.

Ned let her go, a loving smile on his face as he handed his daughter to her mother.

Catelyn swept her child into her arms before turning her back on the gathering and barking at Sansa and Robb to follow, swept inside the castle, intent on trying to forget everything about the last half hour as she never could.

Maester Luwin waited alongside his lord and his brother as Ned Stark asked the question that had been on his mind since he’d seen the harvests of the north quadruple.

“My lady Trickle…”He burred softly, an openness to his features that was anathema to the reputation he carried. “We’ve the plenty, the prosperity you promised us and for that, I thank you. But where is the strength now? Where is the weapon? I cannot protect you and the north, without the means. And against the entire south, the north alone cannot stand.” He entreated, his pride unimportant on this day, when the next time he’d have a chance to speak would be when the next of his children are to be dedicated.

She raised a hand and pressed it to his bearded cheek, the warmth of her skin and the sharpness of her clawed fingers so alien yet familiar at the same time.

“King of wolves, the strength of the old blood will be yours when the new wolf is able to hew it. Nothing will be before that sun comes. And the weapon will be made free when the rot of the chained smoke is thrown from these lands, these rocks and rivers. There must be a trade of life, the chained life weighed to the freed life. Nothing will be before that sun rises. After all these days rise and set, then will the old brothers come together again.”

She ended it there, stepping away from them and seating herself by the heart tree. She sat upon a small boulder and leaned against the bone white bark, and sang a song of chirps and gusts. The workings of Winterfell faded away, and all one could hear was nature around them.

It sounded like a wind tearing over a meadow. A babbling brook as the snow melted. It felt like a copse of trees swaying.

It was life itself she sang, and all three men’s eyes watered as she did so.

By the time the melody finished, she was gone and the sounds of the castle came alive anew.

“My lord, I believe…” Maester Luwin broke off, as he dabbed at his eyes with the overlong sleeves of his robes.

“Yes Maester Luwin.” Ned cut off, before turning to his brother. “Benjen, will you join us?”

Benjen took a look at his front and shook his head gently.

“I’ll be there for the feast, but this next part I imagine I’ll not be needed. Mayhap I’ll go wrangle my niece and nephew and see what new things they’ve learned in my absence.”

With that, he gave a slight nod and turned and walked away, likely to find a bath and refreshment before he tackled young wolves.

“Lead the way Maester.”

In the small maesters tower, the lady of the castle held a freshly contented daughter, now cooing and gurgling after a tiny bit of oat cake had been placed in her fat fisted hand.

When her husband and the maester entered, she’d been watching her daughter for any signs of discomfit or illness, after the ritual in the Godswood.

It was so odd, to see a babe fine after such a heretical ordeal.

She’d done the same to Robb and Sansa, hovering over them for weeks after, watching for any sign of sickness or infirmity. And as the two others, nothing ever presented.

Just her happy, loving babe who maybe frowned a tad much, but that’s to be expected of a Stark.

Luwin already had a map of the north stretched out on a table, small figurines weighing it down at the corners to prevent it from rolling itself up.

Ned looked askance at her as he held out his arms for the babe, and she crowed as she went to him, kicking her chubby legs in delight as her father held her aloft.

Luwin gently rolled up her foot length tunic as his lord held her steady, and just as Catelyn had come to both expect and fear, already there were crude etchings weaving across the pale skin of her babe’s back.

Robb had the rough, yet easily discernible landmark of the White Knife ingrained into his small back, and it never went away.

Catelyn had nearly dropped him in astonishment when she washed him later that night, after his own dedication.

It was only due to her husband’s quick handling that such a disaster was averted.

The servants spoke as if the old gods themselves had blessed him, and even Nan was nonplussed, as nothing in her many stories ever mentioned this.

Sansa had the Stony Shore betwixt her thin shoulders, with Sea dragon Point in high relief.

It’d taken the combined minds of her husband and the maester to discern Robb’s path, while Benjen had shouted it when he’d seen Sansa’s. 

There was such relief when he’d seen it on his kin’s back, as before that, Ned had planned for Benjen to be placed there, to strengthen what was traditionally the weakest portion of the northern realm. To see it was in his nieces future, and not his own had made his grey eyes alight, as if he’d been freed from the heavy hand of his brother.

Only to have Ned remain steadfast in his tasking to his brother to see a seat established there, so that his daughter would have something tangible to inherit when she came of age.

Arya’s was nothing that looked like the north however, as the identical frowns worn by both the master of the north and his maester as they peered over both the northern map, and the quick sketch the maester made of her daughters etching.

After a moment, Ned came over and cupped his daughter’s small head with his large hand, and then did the same with his wife and his other hand. He kissed both on their foreheads, as he surrounded them with his strength and held them close.

“Thank you Cat, for standing beside me even when you find yourself fearful.” He breathed into her ear, Arya fussing at the closeness.

“Now I must find Benjen and ask him to look at the sketching, for he always dreamed of seeing the realm at large. Maybe his curious eyes might catch what ours missed.” He murmured into the shell of her ear, the warm breath causing her to flush.

He kissed them both once more, before taking the parchment the maester had already copied and stepping from the room.

Catelyn stepped to the window and watched with Arya as her husband crossed the yard apace, the men rebuilding and expanding the First keep and the broken tower hailing their lord from afar.

Work was ever ongoing in both Winterfell and the north these days it seemed, as the wealth the creature Trickle had promised her husband in return for his protection was in constant flow, from the farmers to their lords, from the lords to their overlord, and from their overlord back to the people.

That was the first day Ned had ever outright spoken, to what the people of the north had felt was inevitable after their return from the rebellion.

Her son a prince and beautiful girls as princesses.

The firstborn child of Hoster and Minisa Tully a queen, beside her wolf king husband.

_The workings of the seven are strange indeed. But it is not for us to question the gods, but only to honor them as they work in our lives._

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to comment. Lifeblood to the writers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to be longer but decided to break it in two. Please comment at the end as well

The Red keep

Year 291 AC

“He’s too young Elia. They both are.” Rhaella Targaryen had become a more forceful sort of lady in the freedom she availed herself of in her widowhood. And nothing provoked her grit more than a potential threat to her family. It was this steely dragoness that faced down Tywin Lannister and his lords beyond the city walls, borne on a litter and with only Ser Barristan and one hundred red cloaks at her back, heavily pregnant with the last gift of her fiendish husband.

Ser Barristan had no small amount of wonder in his retelling to Elia later that day.

“She accepted my hand and pulled herself to her feet, stared Tywin full in the face and said that House Targaryen was grateful for the punctual presence of its loyal lords of the west, but a peace had already been achieved. He was to return his armies back to their golden hills, and keep watch for the opportunistic Greyjoys, as they’d been lightly raiding the Reach. The man’s eyes burned like wildfire Princess, but he merely nodded and returned to his army. It obviously rankled him to have come so far, only to be sent home with nothing but all knew why he was so ill timed. He knew we understood it as well, so what could he do? It didn’t help that the wolves were there, watching the confrontation in silence.”

_It was good to see that even though he loathes my house, the northman was true to his promise. Without them there, who knows if Tywin might have wagered all on the swords of his men and sought to take the city regardless?_

Now that same woman was expressing her genuine displeasure six years later, a healthy bloom to her visage that had been absent in the many years her brother-husband reigned.

“Viserys is altogether too imprudent to be trusted on such a journey without myself or another who can rein him in. Seven above, I love the boy but in his arrogance he’ll not mind his Kingsguard shadows one bit, as he believes them to be mere servants, not men of authority to be heeded.” She huffed, a long-suffering wince on her lined, but still lovely face. Her long-suffering years with Aerys had prematurely aged her, it was known. “I try to keep him away from Lord Connington when we come to the capitol, but that griffin is not alone in his feeding tales of the dragon’s greatness to my son. Him, Lucerys, and others; all preening and fawning over Viserys, and making his head swell with want and hubris. In the south that may be tolerated, but Elia, you and I both know in the north, they hold no love for us. All it would take is one rude remark finding the wrong ear and my boy might find himself facing down an Umber, or even worse, a Bolton.”

She snatched a cake from the tableau then, but in her agitation, she merely broke it apart, and then broke those pieces into smaller ones, a near mania to her look.

  
“And Jaehaerys, that poor lonely little boy. I just know that if he goes north, he’ll never come back to me. And we will be the weaker for it Elia, I promise you.” She started eating the crumbed cake now, her delicate jaw moving mechanically, a chilling brightness to her violet gaze that uncomfortably reminded Elia of Aerys. “I know what Rhaegar and that fool girl did was a betrayal of you, of decorum and of decency. I know that in my bones. I also acknowledge that I haven’t been as involved with Jaehaerys as I could be, what with the time spent on Dragonstone with my own hatchlings, leaving him heavy in your lap. For this I am sorry. But I say this as a grandmother, I see Rhaegar in that little boy. Not the man he became that lead to his end, but the boy he was. He was so careful, so mindful, even as a boy. In Rhae I see your mother, a whirlwind of wit and drive. In Egg, I see your brother Oberyn, not his vices but his cleverness and abiding loyalty to whom he believes to be his family. In Viserys, Mother help me I see Aerys. Not who he became, but who he was when we were hatchlings, as my grandfather would say. In little Dany, I see my mother. And who knows what that means for the realm. If we lose Jaehaerys, it will hurt us good-daughter. I don’t know how or when but it will be something we learn to regret.” She ended it there, still chewing as if lost and her thick lashes were wet.

Elia felt for her good-mother, she truly did.

And she did see the traces of ghosts surrounding the children of the family. Her mother’s indomitable spirit flourished in Rhaenys; in the domineering manner she corralled her cousins into her schemes and plans. Her younger brother’s fierce devotion brightly reflected in Aegon, and his partiality to his sister and cousins, as well as his distance from his half-brother. And she even saw the delicacy of the steps of an earlier Rhaegar, seeded in his son’s watchfulness. The boy hardly smiled, for fear of what, Elia knew not.

Fear was a specter that Elia of Dorne knew much of, and it had soured her smiles over time.

After the death of Rhaegar and the near thing it had been with the rebels surrounding the city, Elia knew what it was to live submerged in fear.

Even now, with the strings of power in her own hands, she still lay down at night with a stomach taut with stress, and woke on a belly of full of worry.

_To try and rule a kingdom of various beasts is a task only a madman would covet. Each one smiling at the pretty little royal family, while hiding designs to swallow us whole, or tear us to shreds._

“Rhaella.” She reached out and clasped her heated hand then, taking care to avoid placing her sleeve on the still mostly full tray of pastries that the handmaidens had placed in the Princess Mother’s antechamber.

“Every single fear you have for Viserys and Jae, I hold ten times over. I fear Viserys will tell Roose Bolton his castle is a hovel that sheep would not shit in. I fear he would tell an Umber that their prized daughter looks and smells like an aurochs.” Rhaella snorted involuntarily at that, cake threatening to spew but she controlled it, and merely turned a look of faux reproach on her. “I fear that Jaehaerys will be rallied around, as a northern claimant to the throne, yes I admit I hold this fear. I also fear that should he come to any harm that it would be whispered by many that it was all a plot by the dornish witch in the capitol to remove any budding menace from her son’s throne. Most of all, I fear him being happy in the north. I told you what his uncle shared with me, before he threw the parchment in the hearth fire. Him being so openly unhappy here, would make his contentment there sting all the more. It threatens the peace, yet I must do it. For all I want good-mother, is peace. And we’ve had one, for several years. And one of the pillars that this peace was built on was the fostering of Jaehaerys with his mother’s family once he reached his fifth nameday. We are now a few moons away from his seventh, and he’s yet to go north. Ser Barristan said it best Rhaella; us not doing as we agreed only tarnishes the honor of my son, in whose name I rule. The boy has to go.” Elia released her hand as she said this, a cheering pat the final touch.

They sat in a loaded silence for a few minutes, Rhaella still eating her crumbs and Elia looking out the window at the orange and gold dazzle from the setting sun.

_If I close my eyes and pretend the shit in the wind is actually the spice of an orchard, I could possibly imagine myself back in the water gardens of home.  
  
_

“Ser Barristan is certainly a man to be concerned with honor.” Rhaella scoffed bitterly, a harsh frown marring her features. “His love of honor allowed him to stand tall at the door, while Aerys took his pleasures. His honor made him blind to the scars tears and wounds his king left me in his tenderness. He is not the man whose opinion should matter when it comes to what’s best for this family, I should think.”

Outside the door, the rattle of shifting metal could be heard, the exercise of a man marked by abashment.

Elia thought about lightly chastising her good-mother for her nerviness, but then thought the better of it.

_She’s right to be bitter. Chained to a lunatic tyrant since girlhood, raped and terrorized and all these men of great honor did nothing. Too in love with their own self-righteousness to even bother with being right. As well as among the departed four, three of whom were party to the absconding of a highborn woman with my husband. I will never be fond of Robert Baratheon and what he meant to do, but I had a full three goblets of red when I learned of his prowess at the Trident. These white cloaked men, as pretty as snow and just as useless._

“As to the secession of the north, let them suffer a winter unassisted by the south.” Rhaella sniffed at the thought, her disdain both reserved and girlish. “It’s always winter or wildlings with that lot, so I say let them wrestle with both on their own, and we’ll see how quickly they long for their old, worn leash.”

Elia had half a mind to tell her good-mother that according to the Spider, the north was making swift strides towards self-sufficiency and surplus, but kept her tongue still.

_If I allow her to think I might have willingly sent her grandson away forever, I might succeed in doing what Viserys always threatens the servants with; seeing if she has a dragon to wake._

“Would you believe that Tywin Lannister has sent to me at Dragonstone not one, not two but three ravens proposing a betrothal between my Dany and his grandson by Lady Cersei Marbrand?” She took a deep draught from her goblet of dornish red, swallowing it quickly and then grimacing at the sourness. “The first one was presumptive, as if there could be no other possible suitors to consider. The next was cajoling, or at least as cajoling as a man such as our great lion of Lannister can manage. I suspect his brother Kevan had limited input. The last was almost threatening, and I could nigh envision the man sitting across the board from me, aiming to cow me into compliance with his bloodless glare. Horrid man, I felt so as a girl when he first came to court, but Aerys that scab loved him, so we all had to suffer his presence.”

Her eyes flashed as she spoke, a real glimpse into the woman she should have been free to be, had she not been shackled to a fountain of madness.

Elia took a more measured sip of her wine of the same vintage, but hers had been softened with water, so as to sit easier in her belly. She wished it a bit harder then, as one necessitated stronger spirits when debating Lannisters, whether the lions be present or absent.

“Yes, I would believe that, Rhaella.” The wine burned as it went down, and she took a moment to wait it out before continuing. “I imagine I received his overture shortly after you declined him, for he outright talked to me of the duties and privileges of a regent, as if I had no idea what my position entails. I think he hoped I’d overrule you, and even tried to couch it in terms of the great alliance that my mother and his wife originally hoped for; the same alliance that he spat upon before, when he rejected Oberyn for Cersei and Jaime for myself, instead offering Tyrion in his place. I politely reminded him that I trusted your judgment and you had my full support. I do think we must do something to keep him content and smother his prowl instinct. If only these Lannister lions were as easy to outmaneuver as Balerion. Give him a ball of thread and he’ll be easy by nightfall.”

Rhaella snorted then, finally doing what she’d been dancing on the edge of and sending a small spray of cake crumbs from her mouth to the floor as she’d turned away at the last instant, sparing the table.

“The very idea of the overly proud Tywin Lannister being soothed and put to nap by throwing a ball of yarn makes my sides hurt with laughter.” She laughed out loud, a full bodied belly laugh that sent their guards outside the doors to shifting. She calmed a moment later though, gravity heavy on her cast. “Aerys was a living scab, a boil I couldn’t have lanced and a menace to the realm at large. But I will always say that he was right to keep Tywin’s claws from establishing a grasp in the royal family. Should he be welcomed in, I can’t imagine that any atween his blood and the throne would last long. For most, it would be enough to be part of the royal family. For men like Tywin, nothing is ever enough.”

  
“His firstborn son back as heir might be a start, however small a step it is towards keeping him engrossed with his ball of thread.” Elia offered softly, her delicate hand curled around the stem of her goblet. “I still remember my mother’s anger when he rejected her suit of Oberyn and myself for his golden twins. My daughter is meant for better than a dornishman, he told my mother to her face, and rejected me for Jaime but then tried to shove the dwarf at us instead. I tell you that it was the memory of the love my mother bore Lady Joanna that kept Lord Tywin from dying bloody on a privy.”

Rhaella smiled then, bitterness making it sharper than her usual.

“Princess Loreza and I thought ourselves so clever at the match we arranged, thumbing our noses at the prideful Lannister’s of the Casterly Rock. We’d loved Joanna, but her stiff, cold husband was a boor and as well as a prig and it was a delight to see him seethe and simmer as his dream was denied.” She traced a pale finger around the rim of her cup absent-mindedly, her eyes soft with memory. “But the gods pull their strings even as we clutch our own. Now both Rhaegar and Aerys lie in the Sept and Tywin still prowls, and half a babe sits the throne. I fear yours is the safest path ahead. Release Ser Jaime from his vows, upsetting centuries of tradition to please one man, and close our ears to the bleating of the masses. They’ll say it was because women ruling leads to folly and whimsy, and that we need to be taken in hand. Tywin will be satisfied for a sennight, and then he’ll be right back to his paces, nose ever in the air and sniffing for blood. “

Elia nodded slowly, a morose glumness heavy in her posture.

“Rhae and Egg will be distraught. Ser Jaime is more than a knight to them; he’s almost a big brother.” She stated softly, a shade of resentment in her voice. “He’s tucked them into bed more than once, when they’ve had bad dreams or caught ill shadows in their rooms. Looked under beds, checked behind tapestries and the like. And I know he’ll miss them as well. Why must so many hurt just to please the singular?”

Rhaella’s hands slid across the table now, taking the dusky, olive toned hands of her good daughter securely.

“Because that is ruling Elia. My grandfather occasionally told me as a girl that a dragon soars by finding a progressive balance of both gliding and winging. At times, it will seem as if everything is effortless, and we are borne up not by strength but by the will of the gods. This is where we are meant to be, flying proudly alone and above all others. In other times, we will fly by every dollop of strength we can spare, in moments seeming to flail more than flap, exertion and striving keeping us aloft more than fluidity and elegance. The crux of it all is the same. We steadily fly, no matter its hardship or ease. This is ruling, to keep both our family and the realm safe from those who would see it plundered for their own personal gain.”

*********************************

That had been two weeks ago, and now here they were.

On the precipice of taking a knife to almost three hundred years of tradition; the people would call them flighty women, while the nobility would call them unfit to sit the throne. 

Let them whisper and judge. It mattered not when this would help keep swords sheathed that much longer.

It only required them to place a lion cub on the altar for the sacrifice. 

The princess mother stared sadly at her good-mother, before she arose with a heavy sigh and moved to the door, opening it and whispering quietly to the Kingsguard sentinel.

She closed the door softly and regained her seat, stopping only to bring the jug of dornish red to the table.

Rhaella took the vessel from Elia’s shaking hand as she slowly resettled herself, a worrisome fragility in her actions.

Rhaella silently refilled their goblets in the tense room, only to be moderately startled herself by the firm knock of the door.

“Enter.” Elia called out shakily, her knuckles white on the tables’ edge.

Ser Jaime Lannister didn’t merely walk into the room; he well-nigh swaggered in, his mother’s cheek apparent in his crooked smile and thrusting chin.

He bowed slowly, an innate gracefulness adding beauty to what would seem blithe should another attempt it.

_It is no wonder Ser Barristan can barely restrain himself from snarling any time they share a post. To stand next to the lion cub, must make him feel as ancient as an oak._

“Our Queen Mother, our Princess Mother.” He drawled, his westerlands accent making him sound bored of them already.

She took a breath and then she took a pull from her cup, finding a strengthening comfort in the familiar burn of the wine as she consumed it.

“Ser Jaime, we will not dance around this, as I fear all of us in this room will be unhappy soon. You enjoy serving as a Kingsguard knight, I believe?” Elia asked slowly, a line under her eyes that threatened to imprint permanently.

The younger man slid to his knees, and removed his helm, a frantic desperation painting his features.

“Of course Princess, it’s the honor of my life.” He avowed loudly, concern chasing away all his jauntiness. “If anything I’ve done has made you think my commitment dubious, I both apologize and avow to never make you feel such a way again. Standing watch over the little king and princess has been both a joy and the highest of undertakings.”

Elia rose from her chair and approached the knight, extending a fine-boned hand, which he gently took, mindful of the gauntlets he wore.

“Ser Jaime, you’ve been as exemplary a knight as any from the stories I’ve heard as a child myself or even told my children. When King Aerys died, you heeded my commands and arrested Pycelle. When we met with the rebel lords all those years ago, you stood ready to defend me from the Demon himself. When my children are at play, you vigilantly look for any dangers. And when my children need something like a big brother, you step in there as well. My Rhaenys thinks you Aemon the Dragonknight come again, and my little Egg surely sees you as glorious a warrior as Symeon Star-Eyes. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I beg your pardon for making you second guess yourself.” She ended warmly, a telling sheen to her brown eyes.

At this, Rhaella took over.

“Ser Jaime, I see your mother in you, and not just for the green cat eyes she gave you. I see her generosity, her strength of will and most of all, her desire to do good. It’s this drive to do good, which causes us to summon you today. You have put the royal family first in every way for these years you’ve served, and we ask you now, to continue to do so, but in a manner that only you can do.”

He squared his shoulders at that, a young man’s eagerness for a quest sharpening his face as he looked askance between the two women. 

“Anything you would have of me is already given, I assure you.” He declared proudly, a young lion in full regalia.

It was plainly seen that he’d taken to his protective role closely, an earnest joy in his face when he looked upon the children at play. But his shining presence was quietly chained to his father, and that one was a menace that could not be left to prowl freely. The only thing that could snare such a lord was his heirs renewed commitment to their filial line.

“We require that you shed the white cloak, Ser Jaime.” Elia said softly, anxiety clear in her eyes. “As staunch a protector of the hatchlings as you’ve been, you can effect more good and grant little Egg and the other children more stability and peace, if you do so from the shadow of your lord father.”

He was gob smacked, a fish’s mouth on a leonine face.

“Bu-bubu-but Kingsguard is for life Princess...” He stammered, pulling his hand free of the Princess Mother’s, a boy’s hurt and confusion rendering him almost rough in his treatment.

“You just assured us that anything we would have of you is already given Ser.” Rhaella reminded him softly. “And to be honest, there is no precedent for this, but we’ve already discussed this with Lord Commander Martell. He’s sad to see you go, truly but he understands what you do not. The realm will already expect the Princess Mother to be overwhelmingly Dornish and flout the more stuffy traditions of court. This one scandal will be exactly what they’ve been waiting for, and while we need not feed the masses scandal, this one will strengthen the royal family, and thus the realm at large. Now Ser Jaime, let us ask you this and please answer us truly. Can you trust your father with the safety of the royal family?” She asked him sharply, her eyes a red dagger of perusal that was laid to his very soul.

The young man was still clearly bowled over, for his response was uncharacteristically rude.

“What?” He hissed out, a stupefied contortion of his mouth. He instantly corrected himself, and then took a moment to study the ceiling above them.

“No, my Queen.” He breathed, reluctance slowing his speech. “I love my father as much as he is able to be loved, but I would not entrust your safety to him. I’d sooner trust that traitor northman with your safekeeping, and that says everything, does it not? I’ll never forget the relief I felt when we learned that the rebels had beaten my father’s host to the capitol.” He laughed then, a rough, ugly sound that spoke to the long simmering bitterness inside. “My father surely planned to take the city and keep, and I knew it would come to my sword against the swords of the people who had served my family for millennia. And I did not know how much familiar blood would be shed that dark day. So when we had word that the direwolf of the north had come, alongside the stag and falcon and trout, I near wept myself to sleep that night in relief. These were men of honor, I told myself and such men would not murder women and children for spite and gain. But my father would. I saw what he did. A claimant who was of age and unwed, a hero to a large portion of the realm for killing a raping, abducting dragon. Never mind that we knew it wasn’t the stag but the wolf that killed Prince Rhaegar. All I knew was that the dragons were weaker than they’d ever been, and my father would push for Robert to rise, with my sweet sister at his side. A Lannister blooded king on the throne in a generation, with more to follow. No, my royal ladies; you cannot trust my father, for his dream was deferred once again.” He drew a hand down his face then, subtly wiping away any possible salty tears.

Rhaella snatched her goblet from the table and took a heavy pull of the wine, her hand shaking as she eyed him over the rim.

“But we can trust you, Ser Jaime.” Elia voiced confidently with a clear-eyed conviction. “And to be fair, as your father’s heir, you have what my own father described as a tangible force of self. He called it, the power of inevitably. He spoke of the intense disagreements and rows between my mother, the Princess of Dorne and my eldest brother Doran. My mother more often than not won any confrontation in her life, that’s how I am standing here even now. But my brother Doran as heir challenged her vision of Dorne almost as often as he agreed to it. Many think my brother Oberyn had the spice, and Doran only the slowness of sand but in our youth, he was as fierce a force as any proud dornishman. And the lords and ladies of Dorne understood this. So they followed my mother’s lead, as was her right, but their eyes were quick to fall on Doran as well. For they knew that he would one day hold Sunspear in his hands, and all of Dorne as well. So they obeyed, but kept his character in mind, for no one wants to be on the ill side of their rulers….unless they be northmen, of course.” She ended with a bitter smile, her eyes wet once again, though whether the sheen was for the knight before her, or those nights behind, even she was unsure. 

“And what then?” He beseeched, a sour skew to his mouth. “I use this influence you speak of to stop my father from his schemes and plots? It will not work. The displeasure of Tywin Lannister today, scares the men of the west more than the specter of my wrath nigh on twenty years from now. IT WILL NOT WORK.” He insisted, a red flush infusing his skin unbecomingly. “Allow me to stay and protect you as I have been. With me here, I’ll be beside you to tell you how he thinks and plans. Please, don’t do this.” He pleaded then, falling to both knees before them.

Elia turned away at that, her thin form looking out the window at the fading sunset.

The slam of an iron goblet impacting upon a table interrupted his entreaties, as Rhaella marched towards him.

“You already promised us obedience Ser.” She growled, her impatience clear. “You don’t want this? Neither do we, but we do what we must to ensure peace. Your accursed father won’t be satisfied until his golden heir is back in his paws, so we give him that. The seven know that Aerys meant to hurt your father with his cloaking you, and he was successful. Now, we give the west back their shining knight, and if it keeps swords in sheathes and feet by home hearths for a few more years, we’ll count it a gift. Your vows say protect the innocent, who is more innocent than the children of the smallfolk who are trampled when the high lords pick and bait each other? Would you count your wants against the blood of the helpless? The raping of maids and babes? The burning of septs and inns?” Her demands left her heaving in anger, a disturbing resemblance to her dead brother king marring her look. 

“I am a knight, my queen-“He ground out, a dark look to his eye before she ran his protests over once again.

“THEN SERVE YOUR LADIES, AND DO WHAT WE’VE COMMANDED OF YOU!” She shouted at him then, only quieting when the shifting of armor outside the door was heard. “Help us serve the king and the people by taking off what should have never been yours in the first place.” She continued in a harsh whisper. “You’ve been the finest of knights Ser Jaime, now serve my grandchildren Egg and Rhaenys by being an even better lord and help us protect this peace we’ve fought so hard for. And if your father plots anything truly heinous, then bear in mind those children you’ve watched grow up, and remember your vows.” Rhaella blew out a harsh breath then, her face flushed rosy. “We need someone in the west we can trust for true Ser. Eddard Stark sits in the north and broods, and at his side sits Catelyn of house Tully. Jon Arryn sits in the east in his mountains and watches, with Lysa Tully bonded to him in marriage. Robert Baratheon is right outside our door, and he rages still but for when he’s drunk himself to sleep, but he remains quiet in his contempt but he loathes us all the same. These are men who were never defeated but they chose to put their weapons aside. And should they rise up once again, there will be many who rise beside them, for the people love a good story, and what story is better than brave noble men throwing down abominations spawned in incest and madness? We know what they say about us Ser. A weak dragon needs a strong lion as its friend. Be that friend for Aegon. Please.”

The golden knight gave a great shuddering sigh in the wake of her tirade, a desolate thing in the cramped room.

It was the sound of the wind carrying a youths dream out to sea, it was the crumbling of a castle made of sand and pride, and it was a boy lying down and a man rising up.

“Who is to take my place from the westerlands then, might I ask?” His question was politely given, but there was an unreserved bitterness in its belly, a trauma left by hurt and unavoidable humiliation.

Elia cleared her throat discreetly, her face still as stone when she swung away from the stunning view of the Blackwater.

“We’d hoped you might be able to suggest someone, to be completely honest Ser. We know this is painful for you, and to choose your replacement is salt in the wound but none here would we trust to know more of the west and its notable men than you.” She asserted softly, the dying light of day casting a lovely glow to her skin. “If you can’t think of any who would suit, Lord Varys is our next hope but…..“

Ser Jaime was cocky, roguish and at times nearing an insolent sort of irreverence, but he was seldom anything approaching solemn.

He was solemn in that moment, however.

“Ser Lyle Crakehall is my suggestion. He’s not as handsome or as witty as me, but he’s fierce and faithful. He’s surprising good with children, as evidenced by the fondness his older brother’s bastard children hold for him. And most importantly, he’s never been scared of my father. He’s done what he’s been ordered, as he knows who his lord is, but if it should come to swords between the dragons and lions, he’d not shirk from his duty to the royal family for fear of my father’s wrath, and that is rare in a westerman.” Ser Jaime confessed, a pained smile curling his handsome mouth. “The Strongboar is who I would feel safest handing my cloak to.”

The silence that followed his advisement was heavy, and neither knight nor princess seemed ready to break it, so it fell to the dowager queen to do so.

“Ser Jaime, we thank you for both your obedience and your input.” Rhaella conveyed graciously, her arm twined around her good-daughters for a supportive squeeze. “The truth is we’ve so dreaded this but it needed to happen, for the sake of peace for the people. Our Lord Hand Yronwood has had the scrolls written for days now; we just had to speak with you first, and then decide upon the successor to your cloak. We will remember how you put the realm before your personal honor Ser, and this will not be forgotten.”

He slowly rose to his feet then, aged years by the conversation.

“When will this take effect then, my ladies? How much longer do I have as a Kingsguard knight?” He asked woodenly, his eyes dull with misery.

“It will probably take a fortnight or two Ser Jaime.” Elia gave him softly, her arm plainly trembling in the older woman’s. “As Queen Rhaella said, we’d held this off as long as possible, but the birds are ready to fly. First to Casterly Rock and your father, and then to the rest of the realm to announce it. They will jeer you and judge us Ser, but never forget that we do this so peace may continue to stand.”

He nodded at that, a tall man who still looked part a boy, from his resentful pout to the way he fidgeted, clearly desiring to be anywhere but there.

“Then I beg your leave my ladies.” He ground out as he jerkily bowed before them. “If all I have is two weeks, then I’d much rather spend these last few days with my charges, whilst I still can. Forgive me.”

He bowed again, his discomfort robbing him of his easy grace as he beat a swift exit, a near slam making both women jump.

Great, harrowing sobs shook Elia’s body at the pain they’d caused the young knight, and she hugged herself to try and stifle them, to no avail.

Only to feel the overly hot arms of Rhaella pull her close into the cup of her body, the lavender perfumes that the Valyrian monarch dabbed herself in bringing a soothing fragrance into her nostrils. The soft hands, their heat felt through the silk layers Elia wore rubbed calming circles into her center.

“He hates us now, and what if he’s right? You feed a cat meat and it will come back the next day seeking more. Even we dornish know this, and we’ve no real knowledge of lions.” She hiccupped, a frustrated bite to her voice. “Tywin gets back his son, and tomorrow he still seeks to stretch his claws out for one of the royal children. If not Dany, then Rhaenys will be the next one he seeks. What if we just gave our best shield back to our greatest threat, for nothing?” She demanded wetly, the tears thickening her voice to almost unrecognizable.

Rhaella pushed her back a bit, so as to look her good-daughter in the face squarely.

“Then we adjust and move accordingly. At times we will seem to soar, while in others, we will struggle and strain. We fly regardless, and we most assuredly do so above the lions. Let them see us and quake, daughter of my heart.”

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, feedback is desired as always


	6. Chapter 6

The Barrowlands of the north

291 AC

They’d been riding north on the kingsroad for weeks and the presence of his prince uncle made it feel even longer.

_I wish he’d gotten swallowed up by the bogs of the Neck. At least then, we wouldn’t have to listen to him day and night._

Viserys never ceased his complaining of the cold, nor of the rudeness of the northmen they’d interacted with on their journey so far, and it was clear that even his personal guards were ready for him to try his hand at silence.

_His guards because why would a Waters be afforded the privilege of Kingsguard protectors?_

Ser Lerayne hadn’t been his usual jovial self after they’d left the riverlands behind them several days past.

The normally merry knight had been withdrawn since they left the hospitality of the Twins, after two days of evading the persistent Lord Frey’s attempts to winkle a betrothal out of first his uncle, and then after Viserys declared no stoat would ever be garbed in the colors of the dragon, Jon himself.

“I’ve plenty of bastard girls suitable for Rhaegars whelp; do as a lord would and let us come to an accord dragon boy.” The old man had cackled then, greed and meanness shining in his sunken eyes.

Ser Lerayne had smoothly drawn his sword then, a cold intent on his face that was a far cry from the cheeriness he was known for.

Ser Menlick hadn’t followed his brother of the order but he did step forward, the impact of his enormous feet on the stone ringing around the cramped chamber.

Prince Viserys cleared his throat then and shoved his way through the wall of steel the knights presented, looking Lord Walder in the face boldly.

For a moment Jon looked at uncle and saw the honest want laid bare; the desire to throw him into this wriggling mass of bodies and be done with him forever.

“Lord Walder, I am a prince, not a mere lord. And my bastard nephew is more dog than dragon but even he is worthy of more than a Frey. Don’t insult us by asking again.” He warned with a dispassionate glance around the room.

The room erupted into outrage and fury, the many sons of the lord of the Crossing shouting and gesturing in their wrath.

Lord Walder said nothing in response to the snub, but the tightness of his age spotted jaw and the trembling of his hanging jowls spoke to the wrath he restrained.

He merely waved a wrinkled, knobby hand and the double doors at the rear of the room opened quickly.

The two white knights hurriedly herded them from the hall and then the castle itself, rigidity to their manner that pressured both boys into silence as they rode away from the Twins, releasing tight chests with hearty exhales once they were surrounded by the one hundred Targaryen men at arms that acted as the escort of this royal progress.

They’d ridden in silence for several minutes before his uncle twisted in the saddle and pinned him with his bright eyes, the eyes all of his family shared, but for the bastard Waters.

“You maybe a bastard borne of a northern dog, but no son of the dragon’s lineage will ever lower himself to even consider a Frey. They’re toll keepers and stoats and if my father were still alive, Walder and his countless sons would rightfully burn for seeking a match with me. He’d merely hang them for asking for you. They only dare because they think Aegon is weak.” He stated coldly, his eyes bright with possession and malice before the gruff cough from Ser Lerayne had him facing forward once again.

No matter how unpleasant their departure from the lush green riverlands was, it didn’t take from the general peacefulness of the realm at large.

The bannermen of the trout’s as his uncle would derisively call them, showed them every respect and comfort they could spare.

For Viserys, it was nothing less than he expected, as a prince of House Targaryen, but to Jon Waters, he finally knew what it felt like to be seen. The daughters of the old houses dancing with him at feasts, and their sons playing with him eagerly, once his princely uncle had bluntly refused to partake in childish energies. 

He’d especially taken to the sons of Lord Blackwood, a shade of peace and oneness found in their pale skin and dark hair and grey eyes.

Ser Menlick had told him that Jon shared blood with House Blackwood on both sides of his ancestry, as they’d married into both the dragons and the wolves, though the wolves were more distantly related to the riverlords than the dragonkings.

All in all, it had been an enjoyable trek across the land, even when his uncle was complaining of the muggy air or the bloodsucking mosquitos.

So when they journeyed through the Neck, the oppressively threatening air had done what innumerable glares and silent menace from their guards had failed at.

It silenced his uncle completely. The bogland swallowed light the way Ser Menlick devoured a trencher, leaving nothing behind.

The red and black cloaked guardsmen of House Targaryen rode five abreast, leaving plenty of space on either side, keeping their horses and wagons well away from the banks of the swamp. The squelching of the bog was unending, a song of burps and warbles that set the hair on Jon’s neck to rise.

They’d been traveling through it for three tense days, before they saw another sign of life.

It was a log that floated towards the banks slowly. Oghert, one of the guards from Dragonstone that made up Prince Viserys personal retinue had been crouching at the bank of the bog, determinedly pulling handfuls of the muck from the water and slathering it on his neck and face. He’d suffered the most from mosquitos, and had remembered what a knight of House Darry had shared with them, when they visited there for a week towards the beginning of this progress.

“They’ll bleed ya, if they can but the mud’ll shield a man.” Ser Pegget had offered when they’d found themselves incessantly swatting at the pests while watching Ser Lerayne do the same to his family’s household knights.

Oghert had clearly decided to try the advice, and his horse had joined him, the small mare daintily lapping at the unusually clear pocket of water before her.

Jon had been scratching his nape by the wagon and his uncle glaring peevishly at any and all when the enormous hand of Ser Menlick had shot out, grabbing Oghert by the nape of his tunic and hauled him backwards.

The smaller man yelped at the handling, and his horse neighed in confusion, but the sound was lost in the eruption from the water, as the log flew into the air and rows of yellow dagger-like teeth clamped around the beasts entire head.

Viserys started screaming, a ringing squeal of terror and misery that was instantly ended by the struggles of the poor horse. Blood was flying through the air, splattering the witnesses as the enormous lizard lion took the entire animal into the bog with a brutal twist of its jaws.

In a matter of seconds, the water was just as calm as it had been moments before, the only telltale sign of such natural violence was the red mixing with the murky.

“H-how did you know Ser?!” Oghert stammered out, his thin face slick with blood and muck.

Ser Menlick merely flexed the fingers of his massive hand and stared into the swamp for a moment. He then checked his sword in its sheath, and soothed his horse by running a gloved hand through its sweaty mane.

“Logs don’t have eyes.”  
  


*************************************************

After that unwanted experience with the wonders of the neck, the travel speed of their party doubled. Oghert was banished to the supply wagons, a lump of a man bemoaning the loss of good horseflesh to the deviled bogs.

It was two days of hurried riding before they were able to see massive walls of black stone rising in the distance.

“Moat Cailin.” Breathed Ser Menlick, as his normally placid eyes brightened with awed recognition. “My father accompanied Bronze Yohn Royce on a visit to the Wall once when I was a boy, and they decided to ride the road, rather than take ship from Gulltown. He told me that Cailin was a damned ruin, once dauntless but now fallen to only three drafty towers still standing. But with those three towers alone, the savage northmen had thrown back endless Andal warlords, the great pride of Andalos, stymied by Stark bronze and grim willpower. Legends died here, below these walls. Grayson the Pious. Eurtlet of the Seven Swords. Petior, the King to be crowned tomorrow. Great hosts of star-marked men, shattered to bone and dust while the rune painted northmen bled them dry. Each man I named would have claimed the south for themselves entirely, but they had greater ambitions still. They wanted the north as well. This great hunger undid them, one after the other. And we in Coldwater Burn celebrated each defeat, though we’d bent our knees to the Arryn kings by that point. All those names, ended. All those hosts, forgotten. Yet Moat Cailin still stands, and behind it, lays the land of the first men, the stronghold of the Starks. Half your blood comes from those ancient wolves boy, so you’ve no reason to think yourself lesser.” He glared down at Jon then, his own grey eyes grave.

_I never thought he liked me, or thought anything of me at all._

Still, to hear of the merit of his mother’s family was so uncommon, all Jon could do was gulp and try to keep down the stale black bread they ate earlier.

The rest of their party was silent, all too stunned by the uncharacteristic eloquence of the vale knight to say anything for a moment.

Until Viserys found his tongue.

“But for all the supposed greatness of these wolves Ser Menlick, they knew to bow before the dragons when the Conqueror came, did they not?” He asked, his question naming the knight but his eyes fastened on Jon. “Now, my family sits above all others, above the Rhoynish, the Andals and most assuredly, the First men. Take care what you put into my nephews ears, ser knight. He should not put more esteem to these northern dogs than before the dragons of old Valyria. And what busy little people these northmen have been. Connington told me this was a ruin, three swaying towers more a death trap to its holders than an impediment to any southern host, but yet I count at least seven towers from here, which means they have at least fourteen in total. I suspect Lord Stark has not written to Kings landing about his intention to rebuild. They dare much, these Starks.” He spoke to none and all, his thin face coldly contemplative.

Ser Menlick inhaled roughly, his chest swelling as if he had more to say, but Ser Lerayne cantered past him blithely, a graceful turn to his cloak as he wheeled his horse to face them.

“Let us not linger to spat, for I expect they’ve dry beds and warm food awaiting us beyond these insubordinate black gates. Unless the Neck has enthralled you all?” He drawled, before plodding over to Jon and tilting his head towards the massive castle ahead.

The watchmen must have already spied their banners from afar, for the portcullis was halfway up by the time they drew near. It was the most fascinating thing Jon had seen since they’d left the Twins, aside from their close call with northern wildlife.

It was black iron, as most portcullis’s are, but it looked like a sea of stars was splashed across the latticed grille, rendering the entire gate a shimmering beauty. Oghert stood up from his seat in the back of the wagon and stretched his hand up, straining audibly to touch the device.

“Don’t arse yerself my friend.” The guard within the gate rumbled in good humor. He was a big man, his leather and chainmail straining around his muscled form. “Out of every ten who see the porty, at least six try their hand at touching it. Some do, most don’t. It makes no difference for they all end up disappointed. It feels the same as the iron gate of the last castle you’ve been in. Not smoother or rougher. It only looks like magic; doesn’t feel like it any.”

The rest of the party had a bit of a laugh at the crestfallen look on Oghert’s face at the forewarning.

The laughter quickly died however, for they’d gained the sprawling courtyard of Moat Cailin.

It was a jumble of work, an ever swelling clamor of industry. Men were cutting wood and totting stone and other mysteries in one wheel carts back and forth, while others were shouting to each other from different ends of the yard.

There were some curious looks at their party, and some of the more fearless had baneful casts to their faces when their eyes fell on Viserys and the three headed dragon he covered himself with. 

Mostly though, they were ignored, left to stand rudderless in the middle of the mess until they were hailed from afar by a brown haired plain faced man of middling years, his rangy form covered in neat, well-made garb.

He slowly made his way towards them, a painful twist to his gait that extended his journey. Once before them, he gave an efficient bow, the balding crown of his head parallel to the ground.

“I am Cal Hardy, castellan of Moat Cailin. Welcome to the north my lords.” He began coolly, his brown eyes hooded and serious. “It’s not every day such company finds itself beyond the Neck. We received ravens from both Riverrun and Seagard to expect you.” His eyes danced over their group slowly then, a furrow appearing at the peevish look on Visery’s thin face before they landed at last on Jon. “I know one of the dragonblood when I see it, so I welcome you Prince Viserys to the north. And I know of only one person in the south said to bear the look of Winterfell, so be welcome Master Waters. Bread and salt will be shared, and then I’ll have you seen to your lodgings.”

He turned to gesture to a waiting servant, beckoning them forward gruffly.

“Why is a title-less man greeting us, when as a prince of the blood it should be no less than a great knight or lord that awaited us? Why do you or these slugs you call people not kneel at the sight of the dragon standard?” Viserys demanded rudely, a mean glint in his eye. “Is the north so primitive that even the common courtesies are unknown?”

Ser Menlick inhaled audibly through his nose, a great pull of air that seemed to even stretch the white steel of his breastplate.

Cal Hardy didn’t rise to the provocation that the young prince threw at his feet, but merely pursed his lips and nearly smiled.

“Well Your highness, Lord Benjen Stark spends most of his time between here at the Moat and then further up by Seadragon Point, establishing a proper defensive stronghold there. If he was here, he’d give you all the graciousness that a boy like you would expect, I’m sure. I’m just the son of a cousin of a Stout of Barrowton, so my manners are a bit more….earthy, you’ll find.” He grinned here, a dagger of white teeth in his bushy brown beard. “As for the lack of muddy knees Dragon Prince, you’ll find that the last thing a northman is prepared to do, is kneel before a man he holds no respect for. Call me uncivilized or primitive, I care not. Any aught you have with the straight backs of we northmen, I welcome you to carry them to Winterfell and the ears of Lord Eddard Stark. Now eat the bread and salt we’ve brought you or chance a stroll back down the way you came.” He finished coldly, a look promising baleful intent finding his face.

Ser Menlick had placed a heavy hand on the shoulder of the prince, and when the boy made to squawk his outrage and disbelief a meaningful tightening was quick to stymie it.

The rest of the party was dumbstruck by the temerity of the man, Ser Lerayne cursing quietly under his breath.

It just slipped out, Jon would later confess.

It was a giggle first, then it tried the waters as a guffaw and finally it bloomed into a hoot.

Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his uncle look so flummoxed.

It had to have been when the Sand snakes (never mind that his sister probably sprouted the idea) had placed the poo from Princess Rhaenys dog into his chambers, in the shape of a snake coiling to strike.

Jon had seen Obara scrubbing her hands in one of the fountains as if she were afraid the water would run out earlier, but just being pleased that he wasn’t the only one who misliked Viserys made him keep his mouth shut when his uncle demanded to know what he’d seen.

He’d snickered quietly when he’d seen Viserys storm through the red keep that day, his screeching of sand shit bastards echoing off the walls.

Today though, he laughed as he’d never done so before.

He even held onto the strong arm of Ser Lerayne as he did so, the hysteria almost painful as his stomach clenched. The tall knight looked down at him, equally bemusement and fondness found in his eyes.

His uncle however, had nothing but malice for him.

Viserys took two steps towards him; his fists clenched at his sides before the enormous form of Ser Menlick twisted him forcibly with the hand on his shoulder and pushed him towards the platter held by the servant girl.

Cal Hardy merely watched in silence, an alert watchfulness to his eyes.

Prince Viserys nearly snatched the bread from the tray, taking only a second to drop salt on it before he shoved it in his mouth, his face reddening even as his nephew’s laughter slowly ebbed and faded.

Jon was next to eat, the stale bread hard in his mouth. Down the line the men of the party partook, until all were covered under the ancient custom of hospitality.

Satisfied, Master Hardy brusquely invited them inside the massive central keep and set about bringing them to their temporary quarters, to rest up and eat before they started out the day after the next.

***************************************

It was a tense day and a half that they spent at the Moat. Their Kingsguard protector from the house of the plowman insisted on them keeping to their rooms and employing testers for their meals, though at least Ser Menlick balked at the implication but in a show of brotherhood, supported Ser Lerayne’s precautions.

When the chilly Master Hardy saw them off on the second morning, Jon was surprised to see gift chests being carried by the servants.

Ever a brief man, the castellan made no great show of these parting tokens.

“To Prince Viserys; a token of wellbeing, from the lord and lady of Barrowton, of House Dustin.” He plopped the small unadorned chest before his still angry uncle.

He turned then to Jon, and his chestnut brown gaze softened a tad.

“To Master Waters, a taste of the richness of the north.” The chest he was given was smaller but well made, with an ornate snarling direwolf carved into the lid.

“These are courtesy of Lord Benjen.”

With one last bow, he turned to the northern gate of the castle and marched back, a silent line of servants his tail.

Stepping beyond the gate was a sight Jon knew would stick with him the rest of his life.

Red was all you saw, leaving the Neck and stepping into the proper north.

Red grass and black bark trees with grey and white leaves. And the wind had a voice to it, a snap that could snatch a laugh and give back a gasp. 

He heard the mutterings of the men at arms, and even Ser Lerayne crossed himself before cantering forward.

“The Spider told us to expect to see things most unusual in this trip north, but it’s one thing to hear, and another to see with the eyes.” Ser Menlick said to no one in particular.

They’d rode for maybe an hour, marveling at the stone cobbled road that began at the massive castle, Jon struggling to balance himself in the newly necessary heavy cloaks they’d packed for the journey, before Viserys demanded they take a break to rest their legs.

And of course, open their gifts.

His uncle, never one to deny himself ripped the chest from the arms of the man who lifted it from the supply wagon and plopped down, an eagerly impatient look in his crimson eyes.

He lifted the lid and gasped, a boyish sound that utterly undid all the self-importance he carried himself with.

Reaching in, he took out a large gleaming red goblet, somehow the red appearing soft and milky. The men gathered around to marvel at the craftsmanship, eyes fixated on the chalice.

It was beautiful, Jon had to admit.

A bold red, the goblet dwarfed his relative’s hand. It appeared smooth to the touch, the only texture the raised three headed dragon that wrapped the bowl.

On the rim, it appeared to have starlight sprinkled around the edge, both inside and outside. Somehow the inside of it was a pitch black, which made the sparkles and frosty red shine even brighter in comparison.  


“Rhaenys will hiss with envy when she sees me drink out of this.” He breathed with glee. “It’s like the gods fashioned this themselves just for me.” He twisted it this way and that, his eyes greedy for the way it reflected the light. 

“Open yours nephew.” He ordered even as he scrutinized the gift. “These dogs may be rude and disloyal, but they know how to craft very well.”

Jon had half a mind to refuse, but he saw the anticipation in the eyes of the men as well, so stifling the sigh, he opened his chest.

Inside, he found a goblet of his own, only his was white with grey swirls, with the only brightness being a raised red leaf, with several points. The same odd sparkle that his uncle’s goblet had was present but only in the grey swirls that drifted hazily around the cup.

It was beautiful but a bit plainer than Visery’s, which seemed to satisfy his kinsman.

“Nice trinket for a bastard but these savages can’t know any better.” He reasoned aloud, a mean twist to his smile until he looked at the chest and his brow puckered in confusion. “Whats’s that there, under the space where the goblet rested?” He demanded petulance in the perfection of his pout.

Jon looked down, and did see something else there.

He pulled it up, taking the cloth that had cradled the goblet and putting it aside; only to unveil five small glass bottles, carefully placed and padded around to prevent shattering whilst traveling on bumpy, jostling roads.

“Perfume maybe?” Offered Oghert tentatively from his place at the back of the wagon.

Never one to respect boundaries placed before him, Viserys plucked one from the open chest and pulled the cork stopper out. He sniffed it inquisitively, ignoring the visible anger and reaching hand of his nephew to pour some out onto the back of his hand.

It bubbled up white upon contact, and the prince brought his hand to his face and sniffed it again.

“Not perfume and it’s too thin to be oil.” He muttered as he stared at it for a moment.

Then he licked it.

Sers Menlick and Lerayne both let out words Jon knew his grandmother would have been wroth to hear around her blood, and one of the men at arms shouted to prepare to return to the Moat for a maester.

Viserys ignored it all, and then a smile spread across his normally pinched face.

“It’s delicious….try it Waters.” He commanded imperiously, an unsettlingly open look on his face.

The enormous hands of Ser Menlick were already reaching for the chest on his lap so Jon was faster, taking one of the four remaining bottles and twisting the cork off, put it to his lips and pulled on it.

It tasted like sunlight and sweetness, and burned his nose as it went down. He kept drinking until Ser Lerayne snatched the bottle out of his small hand and threw it on the road. 

The glass shattered into a thousand pieces and the magic liquid bubbled on the stone road for a second, before it fizzled to water.

“Are you alright lad?!” Ser Lerayne demanded, concern etched into his features and his hands tight on Jon’s shoulders. “If these savages poisoned you, I swear I’ll……Tell me you’re alright son.” He pled, a real fright laid bare in his eyes. He crowded in close to Jon, his gaze perusing his face for any sign of ailment or malady.

Jon opened his mouth to say he was fine, but nothing came out.

Nothing but a loud, rumbling burp that fluttered the bang that Ser Lerayne was exceedingly proud of.

Flushing with embarrassment, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and closed the lid of the box.

The rest of the men looked at him for a moment, before it started with Oghert in the wagon.

He snorted, and then Ser Menlick grumbled, and Ser Lerayne just ran his hand over the head of Jon, tousling his hair and blinking his eyes very hard.

Soon, all were laughing and all Jon wanted to do was get back on his horse and ride on.

************************************

It was called Pearish.

When they’d stopped for a night in a small bustling hamlet situated on the further edge of the Barrowlands, crowding the homely inn they’d taken the time to totally overturn the chests for any other additional gifts.

All they found were three of the same glass jars they’d seen earlier that day, and a parchment note in the bottom of Jon’s that said Pearish.

When they’d asked the denizens if they’d ever heard of it, all said aye but none had the fortune to taste it yet.

“It’s for them lordly types, you see.” Volunteered a burly shepherd, as evidenced by the woolly hairs still stuck to his garments. “Tis supposed to be as sweet as a maid’s first kiss, I’m told. Too good for the likes of us.” He said with a grumble, swinging his heavy arm to indicate the room before taking another swig from his tankard.

Another added on then, his face as square and unbending as the stones that made up the road they traveled on.

“The ‘normous orchards up by Seadragon Point grow the pears. Big as a bears paw, brown as that same bear’s arse and sweet as the honeycomb it had to break its fast. Lord Benny Stark has them do some queer mashing of em, a ’fore sending them down to Barrowton and them thin out the juice from the mash…” Square-Face muttered slowly, his deep-set eyes heavy on their table. “Me brother Elser works in the masher-make in Barrowton. He tells me Lord Dustin bid the workers try it once and nearly all almost cried it tasted so good. Good sort, Lord Dustin is.” He mused, his hammy fist resting against his jaw.

“How do you southrons know anything about Pearish?” A storkish woman asked, her dark eyes curious. “I’d not thought it made its way to the south yet.”

His uncle was promising murder and mayhem with his eyes but Jon ignored him. Viserys would be leaving to go home soon enough, whereas Jon would live here for the next few years at least. It wouldn’t hurt to offer a bit of kindness to these people, especially since it cost him nothing.

He stepped forward, away from hard, uncomfortable seat, aware that his party all shifted as he moved.

“Someone gifted some to me.” He stated into the expectant room.

The silence that statement drew was tense then, and he felt Ser Menlick adjust himself slightly.

“Who’re you then?” Asked Square-face. “Some lordly type with his guard’s n a mummer?” He thrust his meaty chin at Viserys, clearly the mummer in the ensemble.

“I’m not a lord. My name is Jaehaerys Waters, and I’m Lord Eddard Starks nephew.” He said slowly, each word weighed against the mood of the room.

Square-Face stood up from his chair then, and he was much bigger on his feet than he was seated. Ser Menlick stepped forward to match him, and the man found himself covered by the Valeman’s shadow.

But his eyes were fixed to Jon, and he paid no attention to Ser Coldwater.

“You’re Lady Lyanna’s boy then, are you?” He challenged, a thick forearm leaning on the table. He looked more like an angry boar than a man. “She that ran off from her duty, and then a thousand good northmen died in her wake?! That your mum?!” He barked hoarsely, the storkish woman now trying to hush him.

“Eller, shush!” She hissed lowly, her peckish face stiff with fear. “Forgive ‘im my lords. He’s heavy in his cups, and means nothing he’s said.” She promised, terror and the thinnest of hopes mingling in her brown eyes.

Jon quaked with the eyes of the room all fixed upon him, stabbing at him, the ones of his escort with maybe pity but the northern inhabitants more angry, more bitter.

He didn’t know what to say to the expectant faces glaring at him, the sound of sorry not meaning enough, not heavy enough to settle the tempers and hurts that he brought with him wherever he went.

But then it was taken out of his hands anyways.

“Some wolves are wild, though most tend towards wise. The brown of the bark and the grey of the storm, find itself in the northmans eye. No ruler so steady, no House longer lined. Their hearth always open, warmth found by the wolf lord’s side.”

The slow rumble of Ser Menlick had the room captivated, and the many eyes forgot the child and found the giant standing behind him.

“How does a white cloak know the words to a northern lullaby? You northern, under all that plate and polish?” Eller demanded rudely, his scowl now being applied to Ser Menlick Coldwater.

Ser Menlick only ushered Jon back to his seat quietly, before turning back and addressing the foolhardy shepherd.

“I am Kingsguard, from the lands of the Vale by way of House Coldwater.” He declared as his gaze swept the room from the dark of his helmet. Eller Square-face sat down with a weighty thump, his air disinterested once again. “I am not of the north……..But my lady grandmother was. A Flint of Widows Watch she was, the third daughter of old Lord Edren Flint. She sang these northern songs to me and my siblings when we were babes still, and my grandmother wasn’t an easy woman to know but we all knew she was certainly northern. I am proud to protect a son of the line she was so loyal to, even unto death, whilst also admitting there was a lesson in his making. Duty carries a toll, as does want. Lady Lyanna Stark was a child herself, and made a child’s decision with a child’s wisdom. Her son is being taken to the castle of his mother, to learn the lessons she didn’t.” The eyes were on Jon again, but he merely focused on the cold food on the trencher before him, shoving it into his mouth and disregarding the taste. Until a massive hand found his head, and patted it softly. “He’s a good lad, well-meaning and thoughtful.”

Jon chanced a glance at the rest of his table and all were stone-faced, aside from Viserys who looked at Ser Menlick as if the man were a snake he’d found in his meat pie.

“TO OLD EDREN FLINT!” Shouted the until then silent old barkeep, a wizened old man who’d been keeping himself busy behind the counter. “AND TO THE GOOD LADY AGNES!” He added with a nod to Ser Menlick.

Jon noticed that Ser Menlick had never given the room his grandmother’s name, but clearly she was of some esteem if the barkeep remembered with little trouble. 

“TO LORD EDREN AND LADY AGNES!” The room roared happily, the two gold coins that Ser Lerayne smoothly slid on the counter being happily accepted by the man who’d started the chant.

Serving girls gracefully wove their way between the tables, barren tankards being refilled and groping hands avoided.

The party quietly finished their meal and hurried up the stairs to the rooms they’d purchased, taking care to leave the remaining three cases of Pear Press on the counter, with a whispered word from Ser Menlick going into the hairy ears of the barman.

Viserys made to protest the generosity, but the steady march of the party up the stairs muffled his displeasure.

When Ser Lerayne quickly hustled Jon towards the same room his uncle had entered, he’d felt his stomach land somewhere near his toes.

“Ser Lerayne, I thought it’d be the two of us-” Was all he was able to get out before the stern eye of his favored Kingsguard fell upon him, stilling his lips.

“We would have been arranged as we originally planned, you with me and Ser Menlick with Prince Viserys, but someone nearly setting off a beehive in the common room below means we must adjust our plans, as the north has little love for the dragon blood.” He warned softly, his normally kind face firm. “It would have been better for us for them to believe us a troop of mummers playing a room, rather than know Targaryens are amongst them. Now, we must put some men outside to protect our supplies and others below the window to protect you and your uncle. Now tuck in and give us no trouble, the sooner we can quit this place the better I feel.” With an eyebrow arched at the door before them, the knight opened it and pushed Jon inside.

Jon stepped into the poorly lit room, his eyes finding the three tallow candles held on the wall and dreaded the click of the door shutting behind him.

He winced in anticipation of his uncles tirade, a storm of threats and slaps and punches, one for ignoring his silent threats in the common room, and secondly for losing them the rest of the Pearish.

Viserys held no great esteem for the north, but Jon suspected that he thought the world of the sweet concoction. He’d already spoken aloud of requesting for casks of it to be sent to Dragonstone, so that the wondrous drink could be shared by his mother and sister as well.

_He must be spitting mad, a dragon sure to wake up._

But rather than his uncle’s customary abuse, he found him looking out the window, the low light of the small room softening his perpetually angry features.

He looked more like the Dowager Queen in this moment, the sweet lady who watched Jon with such sad eyes, and touched him with even more hesitant hands.

Her children and grandchildren had no such reservations in their treatment of Jon, plenty of slaps, pinches and flicks to go around but the lovely older woman always made Jon wonder if she felt he was wholly made of sharp edges, a piece of glass that would shatter if handled with careless enthusiasm.

Jon was relieved at his uncle’s stillness so took the opportunity to quickly divest himself of his riding clothing and slide into the comfy chair furthest away from the bed claimed by his uncle.

He was tucking his boots beside the chair when his uncle came out of his self-imposed silence.

“If Elia knew he had northern blood, she never would’ve allowed him to become Kingsguard.” He uttered flatly, a petty edge to his words. “Ser Menlick has always been a lout, but now we know he’s a disloyal lout as well. First his rambling at Moat Cailin, and now this, tonight.” He rudely huffed in disbelief, the candlelight making his thin face look ghoulish. “First thing I do when I return to the capitol; I tell Elia and Mum about the _northman_ who is unworthy of his cloak. How can we expect him to truly protect us when he speaks so well of these traitorous dogs?!” He finished at a shout, uncaring if the man he spoke of stood guard beyond the door.

Jon wondered if the huge knight was in fact hearing everything his uncle said about him. If he was, he doubted he cared much.

To keep company with Viserys meant you had to be able to turn off your ears to the opinions he had no problems with sharing, as the son of the old king. He’d rage about some unseen insult for minutes, terrifying those present, only to be distracted by something else, the anger and fury flipping into delight and fascination just as easily.

Jon while in the secret tunnels had once overheard some guardsmen jest that it was a real tragedy that the Targaryens had lost Summerhall to the Baratheons, for if there was ever a stormy dragon, Prince Viserys was it. His propensity to blow in like a thunderstorm only to clear up soon after made him something similar to Jon at court, a pariah to be given space.

The same way he blew out one thought, so quickly he diverted to another.

“The Conqueror should have sliced this realm to bits, giving portions to his most loyal family and bannermen.” He declared imperiously, his eyes greedy as he peered out the window into the darkness. “Were you aware Waters that these Barrowton louts hold almost as much land as the Lannisters? That fat walrus Lord Manderly alone holds the equal of the crownlands under his thumb? My ancestor allowed these northmen too much when he accepted their fealty, and his mistakes nearly ended us seven years ago, thanks to your whore mother and my idiot brother.” He said easily, as if his words were truth etched in stone, skirting his infamous father entirely. “I’m sure Aegon thought that as it was a desolate wasteland of snow and rocks there’d be no threat from such a primitive place and people, yet the bounty the Starks take from the land now means they will rise. For when has the wolf ever known its place without the dragon first giving them the lesson?” He mused darkly, Jon all too eager to pretend to be sleepy in his knotty, lumpy chair far away.

His uncle kept muttering into the night, his features shifting eerily in the light of the dying candle, even as Jon tried to lose himself in a fitful sleep.

*************************

It was another grey morning that found them on the barely cobbled Kingsroad, a dismal drizzle embracing them as they left the now chilly atmosphere of the crossroads hamlet. 

The only one sad to see them leave was the wizened old barkeep, who happily jingled his purse that held all the gold they’d been so generous with.

He told Ser Menlick that beyond the hills ahead lay Cerwyn land and past that was Winterfell.

“Ye can’t miss it.” He assured them, a faraway look to his eyes. “It looks like a stone giant resting his tired bones on a field, with a great gloomy forest as his pillow. Get close enough, and the howls of wolves will surety welcome ya.” He gushed with a wink to Jon, who only flushed at the singular attention.

“Let’s go, I’ve no time to dawdle for the bleatings of northern fools.” Viserys demanded, his horse already dancing underneath him in irritation at his callous pull on the reins. “The sooner we can drop the Bastard Waters with his traitorous uncle, the sooner we can move onto the Wall and a worthwhile reason to ever visit this shitheap of a realm.”

Ser Menlick offered the old man another word of thanks, along with a golden dragon and inclined his head, the weak northern sun making his armor look dull and dinghy. The massive man swung up into his saddle with a surprising grace for one so big and turned his horse, taking his position beside Ser Lerayne and in front of their two charges, with the rest of the men at arms falling in behind the two dragonseeds.

Nobody spoke much, the cold rain stinging them even through the thick cloaks they wore. Ser Lerayne fashioned a makeshift hood for Viserys first and then Jon to try and give them a partial escape from the weather but the rain pelted them through it.

Viserys was for once too miserable to complain aloud, and Jon was his company.

_Is this where I’m going to live for the next few years? A land of stone and snow, with rains that feel like little pricks on the skin? This is worse than when the Grandmaester leeched me for my cold._

They’d ridden for what felt like hours when Ser Lerayne raised his hand in the air, signaling a stop.

The rain hadn’t lessened; rather it had intensified as they traveled so Viserys was quick to make his displeasure known.

“Ser, why would you stop us in the middle of this blasted downpour? Its freezing and we haven’t seen a town or holdfast for miles. We need to keep riding!” He screeched, looking more like a wet bird in his sodden cloak than the dragon he so loudly claimed.

Ser Lerayne didn’t respond, his helmed form turning slowly as he took in the rainy horizon.

The mist around them was thick, and Jon could barely see the road beneath their horses. He was fond of Ser Lerayne, but stopping in the midst of this soak was one of his least favored notions.

Suddenly, Ser Menlick cut through the patter of rainwater like a trumpet.

“MEN, ON US!! PROTECT THE CHARGES!!” He bellowed, his sword sliding from the scabbard with a wet flourish.

The well trained dragoncloaks, trained and drilled by the tireless expectations of Ser Willam Darry fell into a tight circle around the two boys, swords and shields at the ready, the misery of the rain forgotten as they waited for further instructions. Viserys made a proper nuisance of himself, blustering for a sword of his own to cut down any who dared.

Jon was happy to just stay small and silent within the ring of armored men, hoping that it was only a mistake that had set their group on edge.

It wasn’t to be.

“It’s soldiers’ sers.” Muttered Osghert, his face blank from Jon’s view. “I can hear the echo of massive hooves; the northern destrier that their warriors favor. It sounded like a tide of thunder when they rode us down at the Trident, and they howled as they killed us.” He shared quietly, a chilly look rendering his face unfamiliar to Jon. ”I’ve had nightmares about that noise ever since, and they come for us now.” He promised, his form nearly still but for a subtle shaking.

“Mayhaps, but mayhaps not.” Ser Menlick rumbled from his helm, his sword still out and his back a mountain-face to Jon. “Give way men, we’ll take ourselves off the road and give way to our unseen company!” He shouted, and as one, the group swiftly pushed to the roadside, still keeping eyes out in the thick fog.

“Have you lost your mind, you northman loving clod?!” Viserys screeched as his horse was pulled towards the blood red grass being beaten flat by the rainfall. “THE DRAGON DOES NOT GIVE WAY TO LESSERS, THEY GIVE WAY TO THE DRAGON! I’m not some filthy peasant to cower to the side when some barely noble fool rides past!” He raged, his eyes burning brightly under his cloaked hood. 

“Silence boy or I’ll gag you myself!” Hissed Ser Lerayne without even turning in his uncle’s direction, his sharp eyes continually scanning for something in the gloom.

Whatever he did spy, it frightened him enough that he took in a brisk air, the force of it whistling through his overly large nostrils.

Which Jon mirrored when he saw them slowly take shape in the heavy mist.

They were giants, riding in two single columns of nearly ten apiece. And at their center was the king of the giants.

The rain kept pushing Jon’s hair into his eyes, marring his sight but he saw red and brown cloaks clear enough.

“HO MY LORD!” Bellowed Ser Menlick, his sword lower than it was previously, but still clenched in his hand. “We give way and the road to your party, so long as we can continue unmolested to Winterfell, who is expecting us.” He promised solemnly, a tense smile in his voice.

There was no prompt response, no indication at all that they’d heard the knight’s words or were inclined to honor them.

Just heavy, noisy rain drops attacking both them and the mystery party in unison.

“We’ll take the way and the road southron, and your journey may continue in peace.” Rumbled the king of the giants, as he rode through his men, miraculously growing larger still as he neared them. “So long as you tell me true; are you men of the dragon?”

Jon had always thought Ser Menlick the tallest man he’d ever seen, broadest as well but he was a boy compared to the man that cast his shadow over the dragoncloaks.

The man had a large silver clasp on his cloak, and it showed an enormous man breaking his chains violently.

“A fucking Umber.” Spat Osghert bitterly, his gaze heavy with intent.

At that, a rustle of nervous energy swept the defensive southern party and Jon noticed even Viserys was paling quickly, a noticeable quiver to his hands where he wrung them together.

“We are my lord.” Ser Menlick stated slowly. “Here to bring the nephew of your lord into his care for his warding. With us as well is Prince Viserys. We’ve been made welcome in these lands, time and again.” He finished with a hard thrust to his square jaw.

The drizzle of the rain was all the response they had for several long moments, as the two parties glared at each other in the gloomy wet.

“If the Stark in Winterfell awaits you southrons, it won’t be the Greatjon who stands in your way.” The mountain of a man rumbled, his face lost in the shadow of the cloudy day as he looked down on them. Jon heard his uncle start to gasp and wheeze beside him, his hands now a cradle of claws as they intertwined. “Continue on your way, and we shall find ours.” With that, he looked ahead and said no more as his party of giants rode on.

A deep sigh was shared by all as they watched the last of the Umber party canter away into the sleeting water.

“That’s the man who killed Ser Oswell Whent.” Ser Lerayne mumbled in shock, forgetting the presence of his charges momentarily. “He sliced him in half at the waist with the Stark great sword Ice, cutting through plate and chain in one monstrous stroke. It’s said the boiled bones of Ser Oswell had to be delivered back to his ancestral seat in two boxes, for the giant cut him so deeply. I could never imagine the sort of man strong enough to-.” At that, the hand of Ser Menlick fell on his sworn brother’s broad shoulder, and must have given him a squeeze, for the conscientious rambling stopped immediately.

“Forgive me my princes, I said what was unneeded.” He bowed his head, the rain pinging off the back of his helm as he inclined from the middle.

It spoke to the fear that Viserys felt, that he didn’t let loose at the plural mention of princes.

“Can we go sers?” Prince Viserys asked, a worried twist to his jaw as he stared in the direction the northern party had taken.

Ser Menlick put a gloved hand on the shoulder of the second son of King Aerys Targaryen and spoke a few low words into his ear, the rainfall muffling them so the rest of the party heard nothing.

Viserys allowed the contact for a second, before he shrugged the hand away and made for the cobbled footpath again, urging his steed up the small hill with an atypical grace.

He wheeled his horse around, his posture straight as he faced away from the group as he waited for the rest to regain the road.

Jon remembered how his uncle always compared the current Kingsguard of his nephew’s court to the legendary order that his father, King Aerys had, and no matter how noble, the current brotherhood was always found lacking.

They weren’t good enough (aside from Ser Barristan), and there was no gleam to them, not the way they shined in the days of Old King Aerys.

_And that man killed one of them. The one who was known to be friends with Rhaegar, second only to Arthur Dayne in the dragon prince’s trust._

Jon had never contemplated the day when the bravest men he knew would leave him, but seeing the Greatjon Umber alive, put the reality of war alive in his mind for the first time.

_If I ever have to fight, I have to win, or it’ll be someone else that they speak of when mentioning me, and everything I’ve ever done will be linked to whoever beats me. It’s not fair._

***************************

They saw Winterfell two days later, two tense days of watching the trees and plains around them warily, as if expecting the mountainesque northman to fall on them in a fit of savage treason.

They’d been riding in sullen silence, eyes vigilant when Osghert took a loud inhale through his hairy nostrils.

They crested a small hill and there it was.

The barkeep had been right.

_It did look like a giant resting on a field, using a sprawling dark forest as his pillow._

“It’s not bigger than the Red Keep!” Viserys declared peevishly, his eyes hot on Jon’s face as if daring him to contradict his statement.

Jon wisely just kept his mouth sealed and took in the view of the monstrous castle(easily larger than their home) and the sight it made, a grim grey in the middle of a sea of red grass, with the darkest forest Jon had ever seen behind it.

He thought the swamps of the Neck had been dark, but that wood ate light and gave back gloom. As if to tell them of their visitors, a lone wolf howl sounded out of the forest, and his entire party shifted as if uneased.

Except for Jon.

He was finally here, to meet the other half of his family.

At last.

**_END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, not everything i wanted but plans adjust as they play out. Hope you enjoyed and please, feedback is the bare minimum you can do as a reader.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and give feedback. Its the least you can do, and it helps with the future installments.


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